


Five Days With Dr. Basterd

by iluvdanimal



Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Questionable Descriptions of Medical Proceedings, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluvdanimal/pseuds/iluvdanimal
Summary: And an evening with the Pratts.Vyvyan's carefully constructed personal shelter begins to crack when Rick's daughter appears as a student in his hospital.





	1. Day 1:  Taster Course

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm afraid this turned out more soppy than I'd originally intended but I hope you enjoy. Fair warning: Everything I know about medicine I learned from Dr. Google.
> 
> Also - thanks to my Beta reader and Brit-picker YouNeedAUserName222 for all her help!

**Day 1: Taster Course**

 

Dr. Vyvyan Basterd had worked at the Royal Free Hospital in London since the foundation years of his medical training – he'd been a junior doctor there, and he'd taken a number of students under his wing since then. Some were fresh faced eighteen year-olds, out to determine whether medicine really was what they wanted to spend the next ten years studying. Some, more recently, had been in their foundation years of training, looking for their speciality.

Dr. Penelope Joy Pratt-Langford was between foundation years, and she was waiting for him in the hospital lobby. Vyvyan stood a fair distance away, watching her, his hand absently rubbing a spot on his chest, just over his heart. She was tall and graceful, had glossy black hair, a beatific smile, and looked every bit the Indian princess her mother had been, with a single exception: her bright blue eyes, set in a long, delicate face. Vyvyan knew that face – or at least he had, long ago. He'd spent hours looking into her face in awe, memorizing it. But she didn't know that.

She stood next to another medical student, waiting to be collected and to begin their week-long taster course, meant to provide hands-on experience with doctors who worked in emergency medicine. Dr. Pratt-Langford had been assigned to study alongside him. The other doctor had been assigned to study alongside Dr. Richmond, a frequent cohort of Dr. Basterd.

Christine Richmond had the benefit of five years' seniority on Vyvyan, although she'd only been part of the A&E team for a handful of years. But she also had the benefit of a much better relationship with Dr. Condy-Baldock, the hospital consultant, which was why _Dr. Richmond_ was shaking hands with Dr. Penelope Joy Pratt-Langford, and Dr. Vyvyan Basterd was not. She'd decided she wanted to work with the student with the superior academic record, and without consulting Dr. Basterd, the consultant approved the switch at the last minute.

 _She_ would be spending a week with Dr. Pratt-Langford, and Vyvyan would not.

The knowledge that Dr. Richmond had been able to bend Dr. Condy-Baldock to her will so easily angered Vyvyan. He'd known Dr. Richmond was manipulative, but it hadn't ever bothered him because it had never affected him. It figured that the one time it did affect him, it affected him in the most personal way possible. But what really set him off was what he was hearing as he approached the group of doctors.

“I'm so sorry for the mixup,” Dr. Richmond was saying. “Dr. Basterd thought it would be better if you worked with me – both of us being women doctors, I suppose? I guess I never pegged him for having old fashioned sensibilities, but there it is.”

Dr. Basterd knew he'd get reprimanded for blowing past Dr. Richmond to collect the medical student who was not Dr. Pratt-Langford. Not so much for the action, but for the words that accompanied it.

“Right – let's leave the _girls_ to their gossip, shall we? There's work to be done.”

He'd all but grabbed the other, non-female medical student by the scruff and walked off. He couldn't find it in him to care much what anybody thought of it.

He spent the next six hours trying his best to ignore the inferior junior doctor, unless he could give him a job to do that the student, who Vyvyan had discovered was decidedly upper-class the moment he opened his gob, would find vaguely demeaning: fetching bedpans, cleaning up a child's vomit, wheeling an incredibly intoxicated octogenarian down the corridor for an x-ray of his probably broken hip. Vyvyan added a healthy dose of shouting and name-calling, because it meant he'd be less likely to be sharp with patients.

“Stop ogling the nurses and do something useful, you pervy toff!”

“Who the bloody hell taught _you_ how to read an EKG? Pillock.”

“Oi, Dr. Plonker! Keep up – there are actual lives on the line!”

During a break, when he'd told the student to piss off for a half hour, he sat mercifully alone at a cafeteria table. The two students walked in together, but didn't see him; once they'd collected their food they sat close enough that he could overhear their conversation.

“Listen, Pen, I know you're offended, but he's just a sad old man. He's probably divorced, living alone, and miserable. It's unfortunate the reason he didn't want to work with you, but frankly you've got the better end of the deal with Dr. Richmond. Dr. _Basterd_ , as he calls himself, is mean and sarcastic, like he's the NHS's lower-class answer to Gordon Ramsay. He's just living up to his name, really – Basterd. What sort of a name is that? Don't know how someone like that gets _into_ , much less _out of_ , medical school.”

“No bloody excuse!” stormed Dr. Pratt-Langford. “It was sexist and unprofessional and if I ever cross paths with him again he's going to get a piece of my bloody mind!”

Dr. Basterd heaved a sigh, and rubbed the spot over his heart for a long moment. Then, figuring now was just as good a time as any to receive a piece of Dr. Pratt-Langford's mind, he rose.

The male student – Vyvyan couldn't be arsed to remember his name – was clearly intimidated, despite his bravado just a moment ago. Dr. Basterd looked down his nose at the twat as he stuttered a greeting.

“Piss off.”

The male student wasted no time. He muttered a departing word at his cohort, picked up his coffee cup, and stood, only to find himself nose-to-nose with Dr. Basterd again.

“You'll do whatever shit job Richmond wants and I swear to Christ if you so much as _look_ at a patient I'll neuter you myself.”

The student sputtered as he rushed off to find Dr. Richmond. Dr. Basterd looked down at Dr. Pratt-Langford, who was fuming.

He just stared for a second, and then forced himself to look away. She might've taken the opportunity to begin berating him for his terrible behavior towards her colleague, but he couldn't be sure. His ears were flooded with the sound of his own heartbeat, and his palms were starting to sweat. He rubbed his right hand briefly over the spot on his chest, just over his heart.

“Dr. Pratt-Langford,” he snapped suddenly, to cut off her tirade. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“Dr. Pratt will do. And I don't smoke,” she replied curtly. “Aside from being destructively unhealthy, which a qualified doctor _ought_ to know, it's a disgusting habit, if you ask me.”

Rather than putting him off, her tone and her insults put a smile on his face. “Good job I didn't, then,” he replied brightly, pulling a pack from his trouser pocket and tapping one out. “Walk with me.” He put the cigarette between his lips and gestured.

Dr. Pratt scowled, looked away, and sighed heavily before rising and following her superior.

They walked out of the cafeteria and down a long corridor. Vyvyan walked at a healthy pace, checking every so often to make sure Dr. Pratt was keeping up. He ended, not surprisingly, outside at the back of the hospital; he took a zippo from his pocket and lit his cigarette, taking a long drag while he decided how to begin.

“Look,” Vyvyan said at length. “I know you think I'm a right bastard, and you're not wrong. In fact you'd probably have a hard time finding someone in this hospital who disagrees with you in most cases.”

“Yes, well thank you _so much_ for the validation,” was Dr. Pratt's pert reply.

Dr. Basterd barked a laugh and shook his head, taking another drag from his cigarette, reminded sharply of a certain former housemate. “Look, the fact you're a girl has nothing to do with the reason you're not studying with me. I've taught girl doctors before – actually, I prefer it that way; they seem to get to full-on hate a little slower, although I flatter myself one or two actually _didn't_ want me to die in a fire by the time I was through with them.”

Dr. Pratt crossed her arms over her chest and made a face. “Is there a point to this unnecessarily sexist rant, Dr. Basterd?”

He couldn't help but chuckle again. “Ahhh . . . I might as well call you Rick, you act just like him. It's amazing, really. Go on, please – have a big girly strop over the fact that I called you what you are!” When her face turned bright pink, he was tickled.

“What. Are. You. _Talking_ about?” she stormed.

“Well are you a girl or not?”

“It's obvious that I am!”

His eyes brightened, and he spread his hands wide. “And does that _offend_ you in some way?”

“No!”

“So why are you offended that I called you a girl?”

“I'm not!” she shouted. “I'm offended that you _dismissed_ me because I'm a girl!”

“I didn't dismiss you because you're a girl, Rick!”

“Then why did you dismiss me? And my name's not Rick!”

“I didn't dismiss you at all! Richmond decided she had a right to teach the academically superior student, so she switched.”

“And why should I believe anything _you_ say?”

Dr. Basterd took the final drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt into the gutter. He blew the smoke to the side and narrowed his eyes as he held her gaze for a long, tense minute. “Let me tell you something,” he began, taking a step closer to her. “If you think for a moment that Richmond is going to be easy on you, you're sadly bloody mistaken. Richmond puts on a good show for patients but she is a weapons grade cunt. _God help you_ if you fuck up – and she is Britain's most worthless communicator, so you _will_ fuck something up.”

Dr. Pratt had no response for him, which was fine, since he didn't need one. She just seethed quietly, her piercing blue eyes glaring up into his.

“Right, the point here is this: I may have overstepped my boundaries a tiny bit when I said what I said. The fact is, I don't really care one way or another who I teach, all you medical students look and sound the same: wide-eyed, convinced of your superiority, think you're gonna change the world with a single brilliant diagnosis. It's _Richmond_ who gets choosy, and she's got seniority. She wanted you, so I'm stuck with your friend Wanker von Gitface in there.”

Dr. Pratt held her scowl, but it had softened a little.

 _I wanted you,_ he thought but did not say. _I've wanted you for twenty four years._

“I'm sorry.” He swallowed the unexpected and unwelcome lump in his throat.

Her crossed arms relaxed, and she looked away. “Yes, well . . . I suppose I can forgive and forget. Chalk it up to a bad first impression. But if we're going to be at least civil to each other over the next week I think it's best that we adhere to the assignment as is. At least that way there's no animosity on Dr. Richmond's part, and then you and I are on equal footing.”

Dr. Basterd scowled, hard. “Equal footing? You think we're _equals_?” He shook his head and his finger at her when she rushed to clarify. “No. We _are not_ bloody _equals_.” He tapped out another cigarette and slid it between his lips. “Go on,” he said, and waved his hand in the general direction of the hospital. “Richmond will be looking for you.”

All she had for him was a disgusted look. “You're _barmy_ ,” she muttered with a shake of her head.

He lit his cigarette as she walked away. “Heard that one before,” he called, rubbing his chest absently, but she didn't turn back.

 


	2. Day 2:  Black Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta-reader and Brit-picker YouNeedAUserName222!!

The following day, Vyvyan had calmed enough that he'd realized any paperwork manipulation was, at least, not the male student's fault. He resolved to be professional, and try to teach the git something. And also remember his name.

His shift started with a bang at six o'clock in the morning, when paramedics brought in a rather large, rather ill, rather insensible man. Vyvyan listened to the nurse who'd triaged the patient as he walked to the room, with the student – whose name was Dr. Stephens – at his side. “Right – you get all that?” Vyvyan asked.

“Yes, of course. This is fairly standard for an overdose, I expect?”

“Nothing's standard for an overdose, Dr. Stephens.”

“Well, right,” he agreed, as he followed Vyvyan's brisk steps. “But I mean, the patient himself – clearly homeless, likely a lifelong addict, low socioeconomic background and so forth . . . how often do you see patients like that in A&E?”

Vyvyan stopped just before entering the patient's room and fixed Dr. Stephens with the most murderous look he could muster. “Stephens,” he replied, his voice much more like it had been the day before, “I am trying my hardest not to hate you quite so much, but if you ever say something that magnificently stupid and presumptive again, I'll personally see you to the door and you'll never practice in an A&E. _Ever_.” Vyvyan shook his index finger in the young doctor's face. “Understood?”

Dr. Stephens' eyes had gone round, and he paused a moment before nodding. “Yes. Of course, Dr. Basterd. I only meant-”

“Doesn't matter what you meant. That's a human life and you'll treat him with dignity.”

The young doctor nodded again, and swallowed. “Right. Of course.”

Vyvyan turned sharply and entered the patient's room, followed closely by Dr. Stephens as well as the nurse, Katherine. They discovered their patient in a fit, glassy-eyed and angry, attempting to get himself free from his restraints. A low growling came from deep in his throat and he struggled valiantly while Vyvyan assessed him as best as he could.

“Right – we'll need to get that heart rate down. Dr. Stephens, what do you prescribe?”

“Adenosine,” he replied. “And also metoprolol.”

“Yes – good,” said Vyvyan. “Katherine, add diltiazem to our guest's cocktail, please. That's a calcium channel blocker and antihypertensive. Stephens – he actually does need that oxygen, if you'd please reposition the mask.”

Nervously, Dr. Stephens approached the patient while Katherine went after the drugs, and Vyvyan worked to make further assessments of his condition. The junior doctor delicately reached across the patient to re-position the oxygen mask and had been vaguely successful when the patient's insistent pulling at his restraints resulted in one of them failing, and his freed arm reached out to rather forcefully smack Dr. Stephens on the nose.

“Bollocks!” shouted Vyvyan. Stephens was laid out on the floor, insensible to anything. The senior doctor rushed to restrain the patient, dodging several times in order to not meet the same fate as his student. “I could use some bloody help in here!”

Dr. Pratt and Dr. Richmond rushed into the room. Dr. Richmond immediately tended to Dr. Stephens on the floor. Dr. Pratt helped Vyvyan catch and restrain the patient's flailing arm; once he had it under control, he watched her make a quick assessment of the other restraints.

“Leg restraints look fine – this arm's a bit loose though.”

“Leave it,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. She stopped short of adjusting the restraint and looked up at Vyvyan expectantly, as Dr. Richmond escorted a revived and confused Dr. Stephens from the room.

“You've gotta loosen it before you can tighten it – thing's crap, it'll break and he'll hit you,” advised Vyvyan, struggling against the patient. “Bloody hell this one's strong. . . . You'll have to hold him until we get some restraints. Put your hands like this, like mine. Just above the wrist, arm just below the shoulder. Don't let him sit up. Lean into him . . . all your weight . . . there's a good girl. You won't hurt him.”

Katherine came in then, and began administering the medications. “Lovely morning for a staff injury, innit Vyv?”

Vyvyan barked a laugh. “Oh, any morning's good for that. How's your mum, then?”

“She's well, thanks!” declared Katherine as she worked. “Party was lovely, we had perfect weather.”

“Katherine's mum turned ninety-five on Saturday,” Vyvyan informed Dr. Pratt, leaning deeper into the patient.

Dr. Pratt smiled at Katherine. “That's impressive! Happy birthday to your mum,” she said with a smile that Vyvyan was happy to drink in for himself.

“Thanks very much!” replied Katherine brightly. “There's that sorted; he should calm down in a moment, bless him. Be back with some restraints.”

“Thanks, Katherine,” said Vyvyan as she left.

There was an awkward silence for a moment once Katherine had gone. The patient's growling stopped, but he continued to pull against his restraints. Dr. Pratt looked up at Vyvyan, and offered a little smile.

“He does seem to be settling.”

“Don't let go,” Vyvyan was quick to advise. “You don't know what he'll do.”

“Right,” she replied, and made sure the arm she held was secure. “Erm. . . . What can you tell me about the patient, Dr. Basterd?”

Vyvyan cleared his throat. “Suspected overdose,” he replied. They weren't more than a foot apart. “No visible injuries; according to the medics he was found wandering up and down, screaming and hitting traffic signs with his head. Without any idea of what he's taken or what's happened, there's some risk with every decision we make.”

“So you make the most conservative decision possible, and correct where you can?”

Vyvyan nodded, pleased. “Yes, that's right. You're a lot more sensible than your colleague, I must say.”

She scowled a little. “He's only trying to learn, same as me,” she muttered, and then the patient lurched; she was forced to lean more heavily onto his arm, which brought her closer to Vyvyan.

He looked up, and all he could see were her eyes. He'd never considered them pretty before, but in her face, that's what they were. But he couldn't very well gaze into a junior doctor's eyes while restraining a patient, so he looked down at his own hands.

“Hmm,” said Dr. Pratt.

He looked back up again, and noticed that her eyes followed his forehead. “Something interesting, Dr. Pratt?”

“Yeah. Interesting scar pattern,” she replied, not in the least bit sheepish, tilting her head at him.

He grinned. “Ah. Those're old piercings. I was something of a punk in medical school,” he replied. “Had a ginger trihawk, and four stars studded across my forehead. That one on the left met a brutal end. If you could see up my nose you'd know I had a septum piercing, as well.”

She laughed a little, and then struggled a moment with the patient's arm. When he'd settled, she looked back up at Vyvyan. “Why did you call me Rick yesterday?”

This time when he smiled, so did his eyes. “I was wondering when you'd ask about that. I was housemates with your dad about the same time I had a ginger trihawk.”

She smiled. “Were you really?”

“Oh, yes. I could tell you stories, but I'd embarrass myself too much. Although I will say my trihawk was much cooler than Rick's pigtails.”

Dr. Pratt laughed outright at that. “He had _pigtails?!_ ”

Vyvyan laughed with her, and leaned on the struggling patient as he nodded. “Looked like such a tosser.”

She laughed again, but the moment was ruined when Dr. Richmond came in with the required hardware, blustering about how inappropriate it was to be laughing over a patient as she applied the restraints first on Dr. Pratt's side, and then on Vyvyan's. When she was through, she commandeered Dr. Pratt's attention again, and Dr. Basterd knew he'd been dismissed.

He rubbed the spot on his chest as she left the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Doctors Pratt and Stephens were in fine form when they took their dinner break.

Vyvyan knew this because, for some unknown reason, they hadn't figured out how to recognize the back of his head when he sat in the cafeteria, and they were, again, sitting within his hearing.

“He looks at you a lot,” said Stephens.

“Does he?  I hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s because he looks away just before you see him.  It’s creepy.  If he tries anything, Pen, I swear I’ll go after him.” Vyvyan suspected Stephens was talking about himself and rolled his eyes. He hoped Dr. Pratt already knew that even if her safety were under serious threat, Stephens' promise would come to nothing – she'd already had a taste of his feckless chivalry the day before.

“Well I don’t know that all that’s necessary.  I don’t get any creeper vibes from him, but I do wonder why he looks.”

“You’re too modest.  You’re young and beautiful, and he’s . . . well, he’s old enough to be your father.”

That put that question to rest, didn't it?

“Well I don’t need another one of those.  Got two already. Neither of whom _ever_ called me Pen.”

The hint fell on deaf ears.  “Parents divorced?”

“They were never married,” she replied, her exasperation evident.  “They weren’t allowed.”

“Because of their immigration status?”

_Did I not already warn this bastard about presumptions?_

The exasperation in Dr. Pratt's tone was thick.  “They’re not immigrants.  One of them was an MP.”

“Oh really?  Your dad was an MP?”

“Yes, _one of them_.”

“What's his name?”

“My dad who was an MP was Bradley Langford. He was elected in 1997.”

There was a pause. “Never heard of him.”

That made Vyvyan want to laugh.

“What’s your mum’s name?”

“Rick.”

That made Vyvyan want to laugh even harder; he couldn't help but crack a smile.

“Some sort of nickname, I take it?” asked Stephens after a mouthful of food.

“ _No,_ Stephens.  They’re both blokes – I told you, I have _two dads_.  That’s why they couldn’t get married.”

“Oh.  Oh, I see.”  There was an awkward pause in the conversation then, as Dr. Pratt ate and Stephens fiddled with the remaining food on his plate.  “Do you know who your real parents are?”

“Yes. _Stephens._ I do.  Rick Pratt and Bradley Langford.” 

She sounded so much like Rick in that moment that he did chuckle a little, and shook his head. 

“Before you ask, I call them Dad and Dadley, respectively.”

Stephens seemed a little flummoxed by her response, stuttering a moment before he pressed on.  “Well what I meant was-”

“No, Stephens, I don’t know.  My mother died and I’m adopted; that’s about all I know.  I did one of those online DNA tests to see if I could find them.  I think I found my grandparents but I can’t be sure since they won’t speak to me beyond shouted curses about failed expectations and disgrace.”

That didn't surprise Vyvyan in the least. If she really had found Zara's parents, it sounded like they, and their self-destructive snobbery, were alive and well.

“Well, if that's the case, they probably didn’t want to be found,” said Stephens.

“But it's not about them, is it?” she replied.  “I've got a right to know my own heritage – I don't even know her name and I should at least know that. I think it was Vivian.”

Vyvyan froze. His limbs went a little numb and his peripheral vision started to blur.

“What makes you say that?” Stephens was asking.

“Well. . . .  It’s weird, but I’ve heard Dad say that name in his sleep.  It’s only been recently, when I brought up trying to find my birth parents.”

Vyvyan had to concentrate to make sure he breathed.

“Maybe she was a friend of his.” Stephens sipped his coffee. “How does your other dad feel about his partner murmuring a woman's name in his sleep?”

“Well that's a rather personal question, don't you think?” she cried, raising a brow.

“Sorry – I'm just chatting. I thought we were just chatting.”

Dr. Pratt chewed the last bite of her food and pushed it away in distaste. “God I hate salad,” she complained. “Would it _really_ be _so hard_ to get some actual vegetarian food in the cafeteria? Anyway. For your information, Stephens, Dadley does not know Dad has murmured Vivian's name in his sleep because Dadley died. Seven years ago. And no that is _not_ why I decided to study medicine.”

The two of them rose to dispose of their trays while continuing their vaguely rude question and answer session as they headed back to the A&E. Vyvyan was so stunned with everything he'd heard that he remained perfectly still for a good five minutes. When he could feel his arms and legs again, he reached up to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands and was surprised to find moisture there. When he'd wiped it hastily away, his hand absently rubbed the spot over his heart again.

 _Doesn't matter,_ he told himself sternly as he got up to go find a place to smoke. _You're no one to her._

_You're no one to either of them._

 


	3. Day 3:  Rick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks again to my wonderful beta and Brit-picker, YouNeedAUserName222!

_**Day 3: Rick** _

 

Vyvyan didn't sleep much that night, and when he did he was plagued with dreams of beating the snot out of Rick. The guilt on his shoulders was heavy; he didn't know if he felt it for having terrorized Rick so routinely, or for continuing to harbor feelings for the stupid prat.

He really had hated him all those years ago. Rick was a self-centered, self-obsessed, self-righteous twat, and Vyvyan hated him. But then Rick's parents had died, and all four housemates miraculously escaped the same fate in a stolen bus.

The day after the bus crash, Mike had decided they should all report to the Kebab and Calculator for a pint or seventeen. Somewhere between their sixth beer and fourth vodka shot, he declared that every year on that date, all four of them would meet in that exact place, no matter what. They were all drunk, and Neil had smoked one or two things before he'd arrived, so the agreement – even from Rick – was raucous.

But the next day, Rick was all but silent. Vyvyan supposed that even Rick, the biggest prat he'd ever met, couldn't ignore the kind of wake-up call they'd received. Until his parents' estate was settled, he had nowhere to go. When the pub had finally kicked them out, and Mike asked Rick where he was going to go, Rick replied that he was going to ask his aunt if she'd let him sleep on her couch. Mike declared that a load of codswallop, and volunteered Vyvyan's mum's house, which Vyvyan thought would be good joke, since his mum didn't know Vyvyan was about to stay there yet.

It was just like it had always been at the share house that evening, really – they fought over everything and nothing, until Vyvyan's mum threatened to throw them both out.

“What I don't understand, _Vyvyan_ ,” he'd spat contemptuously, snapping open the thin blanket he'd been given, “is why, if you could've stayed with your mum this whole time, you _chose_ to sleep in the gutter.”

At the time, he'd only shrugged. “I dunno. Thought it'd be good for a laugh.” That had earned him little more than a glare, and then Rick laid down on the scrap of floor Vyvyan's mother had afforded him, and turned away from him. “Neil and Mike have parents, too, you know!” cried Vyvyan in defense, but it fell on deaf ears.

Vyvyan, never a champion sleeper anyway, pondered Rick's words as the other student tossed and turned, and eventually began snoring. His mother genuinely did not care what he did with his life, and she complained when he'd mentioned needing a place to stay, but she did actually let him stay there, even though it was with the caveat that it was absolutely temporary, and the sooner they got out, the better.

Vyvyan had someone, even if she was cold and unreliable, and who he didn't really know. Rick used to have someone, who he evidently loved – if Rick was capable of that – and they'd been taken from him without warning.

When Vyvyan woke in the morning, Rick was gone; every subsequent morning was the same. Rick folded up his blanket and set it aside with the pillow he'd been given, and wouldn't return until sundown. Even though he went out during the day, Vyvyan doubted he actually went anywhere or did anything. Vyvyan had applied himself to working with a tutor on campus to catch up for the autumn term, and the place was so barren he doubted Rick was doing the same.

But the odd part was that Rick hardly said anything. He didn't even write in his stupid notebook. If he was at the flat, he sat quietly at the table, and avoided Vyvyan's mother entirely. He barely looked at Vyvyan.

But Vyvyan, in between the fantastic headaches he was getting from not drinking and actually reading his textbooks, was watching Rick fairly closely, certainly more closely than he'd ever watched him before. The silence from Rick was odd enough; he also wasn't writing, and he wasn't eating much of anything either.

About a week after the crash Vyvyan was up at an utterly obscene hour, namely eight o'clock in the morning, to go meet his tutor on campus. Rick was seated at the tiny kitchen table, pondering a cornflakes box. Vyvyan sat down next to him and mumbled a rude good morning as he helped himself to a bowl of cereal. Rick was silent as Vyvyan crunched away at his breakfast; when he was done, he pushed the bowl and spoon aside and squared his gaze at the sociology student across from him.

“Right. What's eating you?”

Rick looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. “What d'you mean?”

“I mean you're moping about like you've lost your best friend, Rick. I don't know what you're doing with your time but you're not writing in that stupid notebook, and you're not eating either. Which is _much_ less annoying than how you usually are, but weird. So. What's eating you?”

Rick scrunched his face up in disgust. “Vyvyan. My parents _died_.” Then he swallowed, like he was still having a hard time saying it out loud.

“But you didn't even like them.”

“Yes I did! They were my _parents_ , Vyvyan!”

“Well wandering around like you're a lost little puppy is hardly going to bring them back, Rick.”

“I know _that_ , you bastard,” he spat. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do now.”

“What you're _supposed_ to do? Literally anything you want, Rick.”

Rick was quiet a moment. “I don't know what I want.”

Vyvyan harrumphed. “Doesn't surprise me.”

“What doesn't?”

Vyvyan leaned back in his chair. “All that jaw-jacking about bringing down fascists – just talk!” he declared. “Every time you bang on about Thatcher it's just a load of hot air! You don't have any idea what's actually wrong with the country, you just like to complain about it!”

He couldn't tell if Rick's expression had turned to panic or sorrow. “That isn't true, Vyvyan, I do! I do want to change things!”

Vyvyan sneered at him. “No you don't, you bastard. You want things to change, just like that, at the snap of your poofy fingers!”

“Oh I do not! I'm well aware of the fact that things don't change just like that and I'm perfectly willing to work at it!”

“Oh really? Doing what? Writing horrid poems?”

“For your information, _Vyvyan_ , poetry and other literature _can_ change the world! It teaches people how to express their feelings, how to know themselves and their communities!”

“For _your_ information, you stupid prat, none of that bollocks matters if you haven't got a community!”

“I know this is difficult for you, but do try to make some sense, Vyvyan – everyone has a community, even if it's just an awful share house in a terrible neighborhood with even worse housemates!”

“You really are a stupid fuck!” Vyvyan spat back. “Not everyone has a home, do they? Or if they have, they can't find work, and they can't feed their families, or put shoes on their brats' feet!”

For a moment Rick just seethed at Vyvyan, because he didn't have a snappy comeback. But Vyvyan actually did feel a little bad for Rick, so he backed down. “Look Rick,” he said. “I've lived in council housing all my life, right. You want to change the world? This is a good place to start. For these people it frankly doesn't matter who's prime minister – whether it's Thatcher or Saint Cliff Richard or Felicity sodding Kendall. Either way, no one cares about people who are actually poor. You want to change something? Change that.”

Rick raised an eyebrow at Vyvyan. “And what are _you_ going to do with your life?”

“I'm going to be a doctor,” said Vyvyan. “A bloody brilliant one, and I'm going to be filthy stinking rich.”

Rick snorted. “And that's your big contribution to society? Becoming one of the elite?”

“I never said I was going to contribute to society, Rick. That was you. I just want to cut people open and stitch them back up.”

“That's disturbing, Vyvyan.”

Vyvyan shrugged. “I've never pretended not to be, Rick. I've got to go – see you later.”

But Vyvyan didn't see him later. When he returned later that afternoon, there was a note Rick had left, thanking his mother for her hospitality. Vyvyan was oddly disappointed.

A week later he met Zara, and mostly forgot about Rick amid all the work of school and the headiness of being involved with a girl who let him put his hands in her knickers.

In July, on the anniversary of the bus crash, Vyvyan showed up at the agreed-upon time and place, by accident. He was at the Kebab and Calculator listening to his mother, behind the bar, go on about how he should just drop out of school because “that bird you've been seeing” was far smarter than he was, and why should they both have medical school debt, when Rick appeared in his periphery. It took a moment to recognize him. Vyvyan wasn't even drunk.

“Hello, Vyvyan,” was Rick's quiet greeting.

Vyvyan looked him over. He was wearing tidy pleated trousers and a button-down shirt with an upturned collar. His hair was clean and arranged neatly; his greasy pigtails were gone. “Hello, Rick,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

Rick's expectant and vaguely hopeful face fell. “You've forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“It's July tenth, _Vyvyan_ ,” replied Rick, suddenly pompous and indignant once more. “Only the day we all almost died a fiery death, that's all. No big whoop!”

Realization lit Vyvyan's face, and he checked his watch. “It is, isn't it? What luck – I showed up anyway!”

Rick scowled. “I don't suppose Mike and Neil will have remembered, either.”

“Well Neil never remembers anything properly, but we might see Mike. Don't look so put out, Rick – sit down and have a pint. Mum!”

Rick declined a pint, which was just as well because Vyvyan's mother refused to pay for it, or any more of Vyvyan's. But he did sit down at the bar next to Vyvyan, and for the first time, they actually talked. No conflict, no insults, no drama, just a genuine, reciprocal conversation. Rick talked about the job he'd gotten at a non-profit organization, which sounded boring to Vyvyan, but it lit up Rick's whole face. Mostly the chat was weird and stunted, and had fits and starts, but that was all right. Vyvyan was still getting used to the idea that he was growing as a person, and it seemed like maybe Rick was, too.

Mike never appeared that day. But Vyvyan promised Rick he'd remember the following year, and he did.

This time they met at the pub, but at Rick's request they moved over to the coffee shop across the road. It was quieter there, and he'd never been all that comfortable in pubs anyway. Vyvyan had, for the most part, given up on heavy drinking – he didn't have any time for it. These days he needed as much caffeine as he could get anyway.

This time their conversation was much more easygoing, although Rick seemed a little nervous and kept glancing over his shoulder. Both of them had seen neither hide or hair of Neil or Mike, and both of them were fairly sure they never would again. Rick talked about his job, which Vyvyan didn't understand beyond 'desk,' and Vyvyan talked about school, which Rick didn't much understand beyond 'hospital.'

That had been the day Rick had, for a reason still unknown to Vyvyan, told him that he had a boyfriend. Vyvyan still remembered the long, blank moment between the moment Rick said it, a desperately quiet whisper in the coffee shop, and the moment Vyvyan finally responded.

“I always knew you were a poof!”

He could still remember the vague hurt in Rick's eyes as he smiled and gloated. At the time he didn't understand why he'd regressed, suddenly, to his younger, Rick-antagonizing ways. But that was because Vyvyan had been relatively clueless about himself.

Rick pointed out his boyfriend, Bradley, once Vyvyan was done gloating and generally being an ass – he was sitting outside the shop, waiting. He'd been who Rick was looking over his shoulder at.

Vyvyan instantly hated him. If Rick's plan had been to introduce the two of them, he changed his mind when Vyvyan opined that Bradley _looked_ like a poof.

But before they parted, he'd reassured his friend. “Rick – I don't care.”

Rick looked nervous. “You won't tell anyone?”

“Who would I tell?” asked Vyvyan with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I don't know. But neither of us are very open yet. I don't have anyone who really cares – I mean, there's Aunt Margaret, but she hardly knows who I am anymore anyway. But the people at work, and his family-”

“Rick,” repeated Vyvyan. “I won't tell anyone.”

Rick reached out and impulsively hugged Vyvyan. He'd always assumed that kind of thing would be weird, but it wasn't. It was brief, but it was nice – it was nice to have a friend.

Zara died in March of the following year; it was 1988. Rick attended the funeral; Zara's own parents did not. Vyvyan saw more of Rick that year than just their traditional July tenth meeting and was never sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

The following year, Rick had Poppy, but he avoided talking about her. Vyvyan knew his friend – he really did consider him a friend now – was happy, and he wanted to take comfort in that but could not. Losing Zara, and everything that happened after her death, still weighed heavily on him; seeing Rick so ebulliently happy kind of made his stomach turn.

But seeing Rick so happy also made Vyvyan realize how much his friend had changed. With a partner and a small daughter of his own to care for, he had a purpose in life. As a young sociology student he'd sought purpose in the pages of volumes of poetry, and in social justice, but hadn't found it. The peace that had settled in Rick's life – despite what he and Bradley endured being openly gay and raising a child – brightened Rick's eyes. It relaxed his sneer; made the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiled. It made him _handsome_.

And the moment Vyvyan realized that he'd looked upon Rick as an attractive person – not in an objective way, as one might view a photo of a stranger, but in a deeply personal way – he'd gone out for vodka and drank until he couldn't remember why he'd started.

* * *

 

Zara had been dead for a year before he was even vaguely interested in personal relationships again; when he was, he most certainly hadn't expected the interest to come in the form of a fellow medical student named Patrick. Vyvyan had loved Zara, so it had never entered his head that he could feel the same kind of attraction to a man as he did to a woman. But he couldn't ignore Patrick's deep-set brown eyes watching him from across a lecture hall, or the fact that he didn't mind the way those eyes followed him.

Or the way Patrick's smooth voice, when lowered to just the right pitch, made Vyvyan's whole body hum.

And then there was a party, and vodka, and those eyes following him, and a dark corner and Patrick's mouth on his, Patrick's broad, warm hands on his face and neck and chest and legs. Vyvyan didn't remember how he'd gotten home but he remembered kissing Patrick one more time, remembered feeling desperate, because Patrick would probably sober up the next day and never look at him again.

But that day, in the middle of the chaos in the A&E department, where Vyvyan was excelling in a way he'd never really excelled at anything, Patrick caught his eye as he followed another group of students. He smiled, and Vyvyan smiled back, and the pounding in his head eased a little; the weight on his shoulders and in his heart lightened.

At the end of the day, Dr. Noah Westbrook pulled him aside. Dr. Westbrook was Vyvyan's mentor at the time. He was old, on the cusp of a retirement long overdue, and relatively disinterested, but that suited Vyvyan fine. He didn’t usually use his private office for his conversations with Vyvyan, but when he did it was because the conversation was personal or sensitive. 

“I wanted you to know you were seen last night,” he began.  Vyvyan didn’t have to ask to know what he’d been seen doing – the memories of it were still fresh in his head and he was still trying to determine whether he’d carried on like he had because he was drunk, or because he was lonely, or because he was both of those things.

But either way, he didn’t regret anything he’d been seen doing with Patrick, or the things they’d done away from prying eyes.  In fact, with the way Patrick had smiled at him earlier, he had plans to do them again.

“What happened to your girlfriend, Vyv?  That other medical student, what was her name?”

He swallowed an involuntary lump in his throat.  He’d thought he'd gotten over that.  “Zara,” he answered.  “She died.”

And then it was an easy leap for his mentor to believe he was in mourning and acting out, and he counseled Vyvyan to seek out a therapist.  And Vyvyan had, so he could say that he did – he’d sat in a single session which Vyvyan had started by asking, “Am I a poof if I still like girls?” The therapist shook his head and smiled, and then asked Vyvyan out for a drink.

But Dr. Westbrook would rather mentor someone who was participating in self-destructive activities than mentor someone who was gay, and that was clear enough to Vyvyan.  It was just as well that Patrick was also a medical student, and didn’t want to be seen cavorting with Vyvyan.

Patrick insisted he was not a poof, repeatedly.  Vyvyan agreed with him even as touching Patrick thrilled him.  “It’s just blowing off steam,” he'd remind himself and Vyvyan, right before he shoved his hand into Vyvyan's pants or while Vyvyan shoved him against a wall. School was a lot of work, high pressure, and long hours, and they needed each other. But then Vyvyan grew weary of sneaking around and being afraid of being caught, of having Patrick's hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his moans when they were supposed to be studying, of being otherwise ignored by Patrick.

And that was the crux of matter, really – it couldn't be called “just sex” if it hurt that Patrick wouldn't look at him sideways unless no one else was around. Vyvyan didn't love Patrick, but he did like him; he wasn't making love to Patrick, but it wasn't just fucking, either.

But at the end of the day, there was a name for that – which he'd called Rick both thoughtlessly and mercilessly – that he did not, as a medical student, want associated with himself; Dr. Westbrook had made that abundantly clear. Vyvyan had not, to that point, been accustomed to making adjustments in his life based on what other people thought or expected, so it was hard pill to swallow.

His whole life, all he'd ever wanted was to be a doctor, and he'd be damned if after everything he'd been through he'd let some stupid hormonal urging get in the way. Losing everything he'd worked so hard for terrified Vyvyan more than anything else, so not only was there no further Patrick in his life from then on, there was nobody at all.

 

 

The next time he had coffee with Rick, he considered telling him about Patrick. By then he hadn't seen the other medical student in months, but he hadn't ever spoken about their relationship, if it could be called one, with anyone.

He wasn't sure what he'd say to Rick. Vyvyan thought about Rick's whispered confession years ago, and his own stupid, thoughtless response. How Rick had summoned the courage to tell him, of all people, Vyvyan wouldn't ever know. The worst part of considering opening up to Rick was the knowledge that Rick would respond with far more grace than Vyvyan had ever displayed in his entire life.

He couldn't bring himself to discuss it frankly and openly. So he'd framed it like an academic curiosity.

“We've got one of you at the hospital now,” he'd said, sipping coffee on a quiet Wednesday afternoon. “You know, a poof. On the staff. He's a surgeon.”

“How very progressive of the hospital,” replied Rick. “Downright humanitarian, I must say.”

“I'm just saying, Rick. You don't have to get offended about everything.”

“Maybe if you said 'homosexual' or 'gay surgeon' instead of 'poof'?”

“Semantics. You know what I mean.”

Rick rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” said Vyvyan, shaking his head. “But it does bother some – older surgeons, mostly. And some patients cancel, if they know.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” Rick spat.

“What I wonder is, right, at what point do you reckon you're ready to throw your career in the shitter? Cause it's likely, particularly in my profession, that someone throws a hissy-fit about what you like to do in your own bedroom, and then some stuffed suit says it casts a bad light on the hospital.”

Rick grew quiet and thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked Vyvyan in the eyes. “The thing is, Vyvyan . . . if you really want to know?”

“I do.”

He sighed. “It's a process,” he explained. “And it's deeply personal. But you get tired of it, eventually.”

“Tired of what?”

“Of the shame. Of hiding, and guilt, and disgust. Of hating yourself.”

Vyvyan peered back at him carefully. “Did you ever hate yourself, Rick?”

“Yes. But that's not the point, Vyvyan. There just comes a point when you realize you're worthy of love – of self-love, and also from other people. And any consequences of coming out are worth being able to live life as who you are, being able to love and be loved openly. You just have to be prepared for the fact that not everyone will thank you for it – like your elderly surgeons.”

Vyvyan nodded, and looked into his coffee cup. “He's an all right bloke, Doc Mathers. D'you know him?”

“No, _Vyvyan_. Not all gay people know each other, it's not a club.”

“I know that, stupid. He lives in Kensington, that's why I asked.”

“Oh. Well, no, we don't know any surgeons in the neighborhood.” Rick sipped his tea again, and watched Vyvyan a moment as he looked out over the busy street. “Vyvyan?”

“Hm?”

“It's okay, you know.” Vyvyan lifted his head and found Rick's eyes; they were carefully expressionless. “To . . . support your colleague openly, I mean. You might even want to talk with him . . . find out what he's experiencing, being out at work, in the medical field. Maybe there's something you can do to change things.”

Vyvyan had followed that advice and gotten to know Dr. Mathers. He became one of the few physicians Vyvyan was on a first name basis with at the hospital. Not that Vyvyan wasn't generally respected, because he was; he just tended to keep to himself. He was also the first person Vyvyan came out to, although it was several years later.

The last time they'd met was 1993. Vyvyan was exhausted and ill-tempered; he was in the first year of his residency in the A&E at the Royal Free Hospital and it had been a particularly brutal week. Rick seemed utterly blind to his sour mood and was bubbly as could be, going on about Poppy, who was then five years old. Irritably, Vyvyan cut him off.

“Rick – I can't. I'm not part of your mum's group, all right.”

Rick's nostrils flared in offense. “All I'm saying is, she's well.”

Slumped over his coffee cup, he spread his hands wide. “That's really all I need to know, isn't it?”

“Technically, Vyvyan, you don't _need_ to know anything,” he spat back. “She's _my_ daughter and no doubt if Bradley knew I was with you we'd quarrel.”

Vyvyan peered up at him, bleary-eyed. “So why do you still come?”

“I just want to know that you're all right.”

“I'm fine, Rick.”

But he wasn't – he was far from it. He knew that he had to stop seeing Rick. It was entirely platonic and it only happened once a year, and he didn't give a single shit about what Bradley thought of it, but each time it was getting harder. Each time he had to fight harder not to beg Rick to stay just a little longer, not to ask to see photos of Poppy. Each time Vyvyan saw him was a ray of light and a punch in the gut and it had to stop.

He had to find his own light; one he could have and keep, one that wouldn't punch him in the gut.

 

 

The kind of light he sought he'd only really found in his work. Most junior doctors shifted around from hospital to hospital during their residencies; Vyvyan was so good and so comfortable in the A&E that they'd let him stay for the duration, and had a permanent placement for him. It wasn't that he didn't date, after Zara and Patrick, because he had. He wasn't particularly shy about any of it, although he also didn't advertise much.

That didn't keep Katherine, who he'd worked with for years, from trying to set him up with anyone she met. Citing the health benefits of having a partner in life, nearly every other week she had someone new she wanted him to meet, at least at first. As the years had gone on, she'd eased up a little, but it seemed like it was always in the back of her head.

That was the case on Vyvyan's third day of rotations with Dr. Stephens. He'd sent the medical student off to find himself a cup of tea and a few minutes' respite from being forced to follow a senior doctor around, while Vyvyan himself elected to take his tea in his office to do some patient follow-up. Just as he was putting the Styrofoam cup to his lips for the first sip, Katherine knocked quickly, and the invited herself in.

“Vyv – someone's arrived to see you,” she reported.

“That's usually the case when someone shows up in the emergency department, Kat, but someone else should be on the floor right now to cover it.”

“He asked for you by name,” she reported. “So I brought him up here.”

Vyvyan finally looked up at her. “So who is it?”

“An old friend, he said,” she reported, and he didn't like her mischievous smile. “He's awfully cute, Vyv.”

She left abruptly; he heard her invite someone into his office, and then walk away. Vyvyan rumpled his brow and looked down a moment to close the file he'd been reviewing. He heard the door close, and a handful of footsteps come toward him.

“Hello, Vyvyan.”

Vyvyan didn't need to look up to know who was standing in front of him, but he did, slowly. He should have been expecting this.

“Hello, Rick.”

Rick, the bastard, looked good. _Really_ good. He wore a tailored gray suit and he held himself with more grace than Vyvyan had ever seen him do before. His hair had thinned a little, but not much; certainly not as much as Vyvyan's. Around his temples it had turned a dignified white, and he sported a well-groomed beard.

“May I sit down? Have you got a minute?”

Vyvyan stretched a hand out to gesture to the chair opposite him as an invitation.

Rick smiled a little, and sat himself down. “You're looking well.”

“You're a bloody liar,” Vyvyan replied with a smirk. “What I haven't lost of my hair's gone pale and there are bags the size and relative color of plums under my eyes.”

“No, really, Vyvyan,” said Rick, with a tone and expression that made the physician think he might actually be sincere. “You look well. Tired, but well. How've you been?”

Vyvyan chuckled a little. “I'm fine, Rick,” he replied. “I don't mean to be rude, but I've only got a few minutes before I'm expected on the floor. What can I do for you?”

Rick paused a beat. “I'm . . . I don't want to interfere or anything, but I'm here about Poppy.”

“She's expected in A&E shortly, as well – I suspect you'll find her having a cup of tea with a pale faced bastard called Stephens.”

“Well – I don't need to see her, Vyv. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh. About what?”

Rick leaned in a little. “She told me she's here doing what she called a taster course, to see if she wants to specialize in emergency medicine.”

“Would you like me to talk her out of it?”

“No, no – nothing like that. I don't want to influence her academic career. She's intelligent and capable enough to select her own speciality; I'm not worried about that.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I understand things aren't . . . going . . . well. With the two of you.”

“Did Dr. Pratt-Langford say that?”

“It's more that she doesn't know what to make of you, I think. She came home last night ranting about an A&E doctor I'd once lived with being sexist and a little insane.”

Vyvyan thought a moment, looking over Rick. “I wouldn't say things aren't going well. Medical students are very often hard on themselves while at the same time being convinced they could do more if the doctor in charge would just let them do whatever they want. But Dr. Pratt-Langford seems to actually want to learn – I mean, she's as convinced of her own brilliance as much as any other medical student I've ever run across, but frankly I think that comes with the profession. And she does seem to have an aptitude for handling the unknown – isn't squeamish at all, jumps right in to do what she knows she can.”

A slow smile spread across Rick's face. “Vyvyan, I think that's the most insightful thing I've ever heard you say.”

“Yes, well – it has been nearly twenty years since I've seen you.”

Rick's eyes softened with a smile. “Blimey . . . are we that old?”

“Oh yes,” replied Vyvyan. “You don't look it, but I feel it. More every day.”

Rick smiled again, and looked around Vyvyan's small office. “Did you know Bradley died?”

“Yes – I saw it in the news. I'm sorry, Rick.” He truly was – for Rick and his daughter. Privately, though, he hoped Bradley was getting repeatedly hit in the face with a frying pan in hell.

“Thank you. It was lung cancer . . . we thought he'd beat it about a year after his initial diagnosis, but it came back. I know . . . I know you didn't like him, but he doted on Poppy and she loved him. She took such _good_ care of him when he was ill; nothing ever bothered her. He liked to say that that was when she decided to study medicine, but it wasn't true. She's always wanted to be a doctor. Other little girls played house with their dolls; little Miss Pratt-Langford set up a clinic.”

Vyvyan smiled. “She's going to make a great doctor, Rick. You should be chuffed.”

“I am.”

“As for the slightly insane charge . . . it's complicated. The first day, she wanted to tell me we were equals. You and I both know she's better than I am, but I'm guessing she thought I was saying the opposite.” He shook his head and scrubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. “Blimey I need a smoke!” After a deep breath in, and back out again, he rested his elbows on his desk and looked back at Rick. “Zara's parents, they're some high class ponces. She embarrassed them by slumming it with me. Mrs. Singh called me disgusting, and Mr. Singh. . . .” He sat forward, and leaned on his desk. “I can't repeat it. Doesn't matter though, I proved them both right.”

Rick was quiet a long moment, trying to decide what to say. Vyvyan knew that comforting words or disputing the opinions of Mr. and Mrs. Singh wouldn't land well in his ears, and he was grateful that Rick seemed to be remembering that particular personality quirk of his.

“Vyv,” he finally decided on. “Tell her.”

“Rick-”

“She wants to know. She's met the Singhs already; they broke her heart. Tell her about you.”

Vyvyan shook his head. “What could she possibly gain from knowing?”

“I think you have to let her decide that, Vyv. But she's already made up her mind she wants to know. And you know how _I_ am when I've made up my mind about something.”

“Yeah,” replied Vyvyan, his fingers reaching up absently to rest over his heart. “You're an annoying bastard.”

Rick smiled at him. “Please think about it, Vyv?”

Vyvyan nodded in reply. Rick held his gaze a moment, and then rose to leave his office. “I hope this won't be the last time I see you. You really do look good.”

Vyvyan could only smile back at him as he left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to know what you think!


	4. Day 4: A Continuation of Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the questionable descriptions of medical procedures really gets some air time. Anyone who knows better can feel free to correct me.
> 
> Thanks again to my beta-reader YouNeedAUserName222!

**Day 4: A Continuation of Day 3**

 

It was nearly ten thirty at night and Vyvyan was in a dead sleep when his pager started screeching. Long accustomed to this, he shot out of bed, donned clean scrubs and trainers, and bolted from the house.

He had a more explanatory text from the charge nurse. _Bus crash on the M1_ , it said. _Multiple incoming._

Vyvyan only lived a few blocks from the hospital, so it was a literal sprint from his door to the A&E. The first patients began arriving around the same time as a host of other medical professionals – he recognized his own peer doctors from A&E, and also surgical staff, neurologists, orthopedic specialists, and every nurse that had ever graced the front doors of the Royal Free Hospital.

Vyvyan set his shoulders, washed his hands, and donned the required protective clothing. He always felt guilty for thinking these scenarios were exhilarating, but he lived for this kind of chaos. He had no idea what was about to come at him, but whatever it was, he was prepared for it.

What he was not prepared for was seeing Dr. Pratt's anxious face. Her glossy hair was twisted up off her shoulders, and she was looking for someone.

He stormed over to her. “What the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Dr. Richmond called me in,” she replied. “Have you seen her?”

“I'm not Richmond's bloody babysitter. I don't know why she called you in – this is no time to have students about getting underfoot!”

Dr. Pratt had no qualms about yelling right back at Vyvyan. “Well there must be something I can do!”

“If you were any other student I'd tell you to _piss off_ ,” he snapped with a glare, shaking his finger at her. “But for now you can go to the nurse's station. Do whatever they want you to do, even if it's just fetching supplies,” he said. “Go!”

Vyvyan watched her go. Then he turned, to throw himself gleefully into the chaos.

 

* * *

 

Several hours, face masks, and protective gowns, countless pairs of gloves, and a change of scrubs later, the A&E seemed well on its way back to the dull roar it usually was. There was still a certain level of mayhem about the place, with less severely injured patients still waiting to be seen, and the cleaners bustling everywhere to clear away rubbish and wash walls and floors.

Vyvyan had watched Dr. Pratt run back and forth through the department, although he didn't know what she was doing. He had heard multiple nurses thank her, and had paused in a quiet moment at the nurse's station to watch her smile comfortingly at a young woman who was being wheeled down the hall in the general direction of Radiology. She'd caught his eye once the patient passed, and nodded once at him.

He nodded back, probably scowling. If she could handle all of what had just been thrown at her and still be standing, she'd be all right if she chose emergency medicine.

In fact, she'd be brilliant.

“Right Vyv,” said a bright voice, and one of the night nurses was holding up two folders. Vyvyan peered at her badge to remind himself of her name. It was Maria. “Last one, then I think it's under control. Would you like to reduce a shoulder or repair a gashed foot?”

“Well – ordinarily, I'd take the gashed foot, of course,” replied Vyvyan. He really did love blood. “But I'd better take the shoulder. My eyes hurt, don't really want to give some poor sod a zig-zag foot scar.”

“Right this way then,” gestured Maria, and she led him into the room, where a sleepy young man sat with his left arm held very closely to his torso.

“Hello there,” Vyvyan greeted. “What is your name, good sir?”

“I'm Sam,” said the young man, not more than ten or eleven years old.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sam. I'm Dr. Basterd.”

This was, by far, Vyvyan's favorite thing about treating young people. They never hesitated to giggle at his name and despite his pain and lack of sleep, Sam was no exception. He peered up at Vyvyan doubtfully. “Is your _real_ name _really_ Bastard?”

Vyvyan showed him his hospital ID badge. “Yes, really! It's spelled with an E, but sounds the same. Tomorrow you'll be able to announce to anyone you like that you were treated by a complete Basterd and not get in trouble for using rude words!”

Sam laughed again, and said, “I hope so, that'll be fun!”

Maria shook her head as Vyvyan read over Sam's chart. “Best mind your audience, Sam – don't try that out on your gran.”

Vyvyan smiled up at Maria and winked at Sam. “Were you on the bus, Sam?” he asked.

“Yes – with my mum. She's got a broken leg and they're trying to get it fixed just now.”

“All right. Let's get you fixed up so you can go and hold her hand, yeah?”

Sam nodded his assent, and Vyvyan began explaining what he was going to do, gesturing to the relevant body parts as he spoke. “You've got a dislocated shoulder. That means your humerus – I shall spare you the stupid doctor joke about this not being funny – has separated from the socket.”

“That _is_ a stupid doctor joke.”

“Right it is. Now, the x-ray we took doesn't show any damage, other than your socket being incorrectly empty, so I'm going to do something called a closed reduction maneuver to put your shoulder back in place. The medicine Maria gave you a few minutes ago was a muscle relaxer; it's why you feel tired. But the relaxed muscles will help all this go much more smoothly. Now, it is going to hurt, but as soon as it's done the pain will stop. I promise. All right?”

“All right,” replied Sam.

Maria helped get Sam into a prone position and held his hand while Vyvyan began the procedure. As he worked on his young patient's arm, his attention was momentarily distracted by some raised voices in the hall. That itself wouldn't have been any cause for alarm – this was the emergency department, after all – but what he saw when he raised his head piqued his interest.

A distraught woman was depositing an apparently unconscious child into Dr. Pratt's waiting arms. Dr. Pratt wasted no time in turning to find a place to assess the child.

He turned back to Sam, and a moment later heard and felt the telltale clunk of a shoulder being re-articulated. The surprise on Sam's face was a further delight, and Vyvyan smiled as he moved Sam's arm gently.

“Oh my gosh – it really does feel better!”

“See? Promised,” he said. Then he led Sam through a series of exercises to make sure his arm was fully functional. Satisfied, he sat Sam up and talked him through next steps. “Now, you're gonna be sore for a few days, but ice and ibuprofen should help. Have you got a brother or sister?”

“An older brother, yeah.”

“Perfect – he can help both you and your mum around the house. I'd like you to take it easy on that arm a few days, limited reaching, lifting, or repetitive movements. So no vacuuming, or washing up, or folding laundry.”

“Brilliant!” declared Sam.

A single raised voice returned; Vyvyan could tell it was Dr. Richmond's, but he couldn't pick out any others.

“No video games, either,” said Maria, with a stern look at Vyvyan. “And you still have to wash.”

Vyvyan fixed Sam a withered look. “Nurses. They're so boring! Always wanting you to look after yourself and be respectful and follow orders. . . .”

“You're hilarious, Dr. Basterd.”

Sam giggled at their banter.

“Right – I can't discharge you without your mum, so Maria's going to take you on a little ride to find her. But if she gets lost it's no problem, 'cause breakfast is in a few hours anyway.”

“I like breakfast,” said Sam sleepily.

Vyvyan signed the required forms and shook Sam's non-injured hand. “Me too. I'd like cornflakes with ketchup, and a cuppa. Seven o'clock sharp, don't forget the sugar.”

Wrinkling his nose at the idea of ketchup and cornflakes, Sam laughed again as Vyvyan left the room. “Goodbye, Basterd!”

“It's _Doctor_ Basterd! And don't be late!”

Out in the hallway it was clear that the raised voice was coming from two rooms down; Vyvyan followed it to find a small child laid out on a gurney, and Dr. Pratt and Dr. Richmond facing each other. Richmond was absolutely incensed; Dr. Pratt looked terrified.

“No triage, no thought to procedure! What were you thinking? This is the most irresponsible thing I have ever _seen_!”

“Richmond, what's the trouble?” he asked, and stepped between them to access the patient. She continued to yell at Dr. Pratt, so he called out to a nurse called Becky, who joined him swiftly. “Is this a bus passenger?”

“ _Yes_ it's a bus passenger, Basterd!” Richmond snapped at him, and immediately went back to berating Dr. Pratt.

“All I know's his mum dropped him into her arms – she brought him in here to assess; I thought Doc Richmond was on her heels,” reported Becky as she put her stethoscope into her ears. “Don't know if he was on that bus or not.”

Vyvyan lifted the lids of both eyes. Dissatisfied, he pulled his pen light from his pocket. “It would be really helpful if I knew what I was looking at, Richmond!”

“Vyv – he's gone,” said Becky, over Dr. Richmond's shouting and Dr. Pratt's repeated apologies. She shook her head and moved her stethoscope fruitlessly across the boy's chest.

Vyvyan shone his light into both of the boy's eyes, and let out a sigh. “God dammit.”

Richmond was still in the throes of lecturing Dr. Pratt about allowing nurses to triage and make first assessments, but Vyvyan was much more interested in the patient himself. “I see anisocoria,” he noted to Becky, re-examining the boy's eyes. “No visible injuries to his forehead but there's a contusion on his jaw. Roll him?”

Becky reached across the table and rolled the boy's limp body toward herself. Vyvyan peered at the back of his head, and his face constricted into a murderous scowl.

“We'll need a constable, Becks.”

Becky nodded. “I'll take care of him, Doc.”

“Thank you.” Vyvyan helped Becky re-adjust the body, and then smoothed his hand hand over the little boy's head. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“Basterd, I am telling you, if you do not stop interfering with my student-”

But Vyvyan didn't care about Richmond and her ranting just at that moment. Most of the color had drained from Dr. Pratt's face, and she was shaking, and that made him almost as angry as the wound in the back of the little boy's head, which he was certain had been placed there purposely. He turned all his fury toward Dr. Richmond.

“First of all, I'm not here to interfere with a student, I'm here to manage a patient which is _my bloody job_. Secondly, I wouldn't feel the need to if _you_ were actually doing it instead of banging on about procedures loudly enough for all of France to hear!”

Richmond turned red, and was about to fire off a reply, but Vyvyan cut her off.

“Third, _your student_ wouldn't even be here right now if you hadn't called her in, now would she? _Would she?”_ Richmond wasn't provided time enough to answer before Vyvyan started in again. “D'you see Stephens around here anywhere, or any other junior doctors? No, you bloody _don't_! Bloody stupid thing to do, throw a _student_ into the middle of this kind of mayhem.”

“Then why did you provide her with instructions, Dr. Basterd?”

“ _I_ provided her with instructions she could follow! _I_ told her to support the nursing staff which is approximately all she's qualified to do just now!”

“Then why did she take it upon herself to try to assess a patient?”

“Oh, so someone dumps a lifeless body into the arms of someone wearing a white coat, and you want them to do what, call for paperwork? Fuck's sake, Richmond, she's just following her medical training!”

“Dr. Basterd, I appreciate the fact that you're trying to help-”

“Here's what I'd like you to appreciate, Richmond – this boy's death is not her fault. It's the fault of the son of a bitch who applied a blunt object to the back of his head. There's nothing she could've done that would've saved him.”

Richmond screwed up her face. “Now listen, that is _ridiculous_! He was a bus-”

“No bloody _way_ he was on that bus.” Vyvyan paused and looked over at Dr. Pratt. She'd gone quiet, and her eyes were glued to the little boy, still laid on the gurney. Then he glared at Dr. Richmond one more time. “Your screaming doesn't solve anything and it doesn't teach anything. Dr. Pratt needs a moment and the waiting room is still full so why don't you go on and do something useful.”

Richmond glared right back at him. “Your disrespect has been noted. You'll be hearing from Dr. Condy-Baldock.”

“I look forward to it,” he replied flippantly, as she left. The door closed soundly behind her, and Vyvyan shifted his attention to the junior doctor.

“Dr. Pratt?”

She continued to stare at the boy, who Becky was tending to. “I was just trying to help. I didn't do anything – I just looked him over and started resuscitation.”

“I know, Doctor. This isn't your fault.”

“I'm sorry.”

Vyvyan realized she wasn't talking to him – she might not even have realized Dr. Richmond had left the room. “Dr. Pratt, it's not your fault.”

But Dr. Pratt could only apologize repeatedly to the lifeless body on the gurney. He had to get her grounded; had to shift her eyes away from a death she could not possibly have prevented. He had to take all that pain away – it didn't belong in those eyes.

In _his_ eyes, yes. In _hers_? That's what his own pain was meant to prevent.

Vyvyan reached for her, placing his left hand on her right arm. “Dr. Pratt? Please look at me, Doctor.”

But she didn't. He considered shaking her, but that might cause her to lash out; he didn't think she could hurt him, but he also didn't want to do anything that would push her away.

So instead he softened his look, and his voice. “Poppy. Please, look at me.”

Dr. Pratt's eyes went wide, and she met his gaze.

“This is not your fault.”

“What should I do?” she asked, her voice a strained whisper.

Vyvyan reached out with his other hand, noticing when he did that blood from the boy’s injured head had seeped into her sleeve.

“You’ll need to take off your coat,” he said.

Dr. Pratt tilted her head.  “Why?”

“You've got blood on it,” he said gently.

Not unexpectedly, she burst into tears. All Vyvyan could do was wrap his arms around her and let her cry, and it was heaven and hell all at once.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Pratt had been embarrassed, once her tears were exhausted. She hadn't said anything to him, hadn't even really looked at him – she just asked Becky if she could please stay with the boy until someone came for him. Becky nodded, and made sure the blinds in the room were drawn. She promised tea and then took Vyvyan with her when she left.

Vyvyan thanked Becky and then walked to the nurse's station. There, he leaned on the counter and rubbed his eyes with a growl. When he looked up, Katherine was there, peering at him suspiciously.

“Richmond is on the warpath,” she warned.

“Not bothered. Give me something to do.”

“It's four in the morning, Vyv. Go get some sleep.”

“I'll never sleep in this state, Kat.” He stood up straight and rubbed the spot over his heart. “Please give me something to do.”

Her brow furrowed as she watched his movements. “You know I don't like it when you do that.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I've told you, I'm well. You have an open invitation to speak to the cardiology consultant about the state of my health at any time, so – please, for the love of Christ, give me someone to fix.”

Katherine looked at him a long moment. “All right, Vyv. All right.” She directed him to where he could find his next patient, and left him to his work.

At around ten he realized he was starving – not because he was actually listening to his body, but because Katherine told him off for being hangry. After a smoke, he wandered into the cafeteria and found himself a sandwich; once he'd eaten it, he sat back in his seat and let out a long sigh. The consultant would likely have scheduled a meeting with him by now, and he was about to reach for his phone to check his calendar when Dr. Pratt caught his eye.

She was sitting by herself at a table by the window. She was calm, but her brow was furrowed and there was nothing on the table in front of her except a bottle of water.

He watched her a long moment, rubbing the spot on his chest. Then he rose and walked over to her.

“Dr. Pratt?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot.

“May I join you?”

Dr. Pratt nodded mutely, and she gestured gracefully to the chair opposite her. Vyvyan sat in it, unsure of how to proceed. Belatedly it occurred to him that he didn't know why he'd walked over – he'd just wanted to comfort her. He knew he was scowling, but it was his default expression and he didn't know what she'd react best to just then.

“Are you all right?” was as good an opening as any.

“I'm fine,” she replied. “I mean . . . I can't find Dr. Richmond anywhere so I don't know what she wants me to do. I haven't seen her since . . . since this morning. I figured it was best to just stay out of the way, for now.”

“You haven't been home?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You're exhausted.”

Vyvyan watched her nod, and look out the window.

“I guess emergency medicine isn't for me.”

“Bollocks,” was his sharp reply. She turned her head. “What did I tell you on the first day? Weapons-grade cunt, I said, which is completely unprofessional but completely true. Besides, even if you did make a mistake, and I'm not saying you did, _everyone_ makes them. Like Richmond, for example – she once sent a patient with a gallbladder infection up to the OB floor. Poor bloke was traumatized up there.”

Dr. Pratt huffed a little laugh; Vyvyan rubbed his chest.

“I just don't know what I did wrong,” she whispered, her voice caught in her throat. “I don't understand, and she was just yelling.” And then her tears started again.

Vyvyan wished with every fiber of his being that he could reach out and pull her into his arms again, but he was frozen.

It took her a moment to settle; she mumbled apologies as she mopped her face with napkins from the dispenser on the table and stared blankly ahead. Vyvyan leaned an elbow on the table. “Is this boy your first loss?”

She nodded mutely.

Vyvyan shook his head. “Christ, that's rough.”

“How do you deal with this?” she asked. “I knew it would be hard, but I can't imagine. . . .”

“You need to shift your thoughts,” he said.  “Talk about something completely unrelated for a while – a hobby or something.”

She huffed a little.  “My life has been very little more than lectures and clinical rotations for so long, I don’t know what other interests I have.”

“I remember that well enough,” he replied with a little smile.  Then he cleared his throat, and almost stopped himself before saying, “I overheard you talking with Stephens the other day.  About trying to find your birth parents.”

She nodded and blinked a few times, trying to focus on that.  “Yeah . . . yeah, all that DNA stuff is confusing.”  She swallowed.  “The test can tell the difference between maternal and paternal DNA – I found out it's my mum's side that's Indian. That's nice to know. And I’m really lucky that that side of my family is small, and that I found a cousin close enough who’s reasonably sure of the family tree. She said she's been trying to trace some of her family for years without any luck.  I think I found my grandparents, but as you probably heard they won’t speak to me. They wouldn't even give me a straight answer when I asked if they had a daughter called Vivian.”  She shrugged a little.  “That’s not the best feeling.”

From nowhere, he remembered Rick's plea from the day before.

_Vyv. Tell her_ , he'd said.

But he couldn't. “Bastards,” he spat instead, his scowl at full strength.

Dr. Pratt shrugged.  “Maybe they have good reasons,” she supposed.  “Maybe my mum did something terrible they can’t forgive.”

“She _didn’t_ ,” he countered, too quickly.  “Even if she did, it’s nothing to do with you. You were a baby.”

“Well I’ll never know,” she replied.  “Unless they relent, which I very much doubt.”  She picked at the label of her water bottle.  “This was supposed to help me feel better.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shifting in his seat a little.  “I really am trying to help.”

She was quiet, picking at the label on the bottle.  Vyvyan watched as tears sprang back to her eyes, and she wiped them swiftly away with the napkin wad in her hand.

His niggling curiosity got the best of him. “What do you know about them?” he asked. “Your birth parents.”

“Nearly nothing. Except that my dad – Rick, that is – knew my father. And my mum died.”

“Rick won't say who he is?”

She shook her head. “He might have a family who doesn't know,” she said. “He might have moved on. Dad said that my father was his friend; he doesn't want to hurt him. He might not want . . . I don't know.”

Vyvyan could hear his own heartbeat rushing in his ears. “But what if he _does_ want?”

“I mean, I hope he does,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I want to know why he gave me up, and what happened to my mum.”

Vyvyan wasn't sure if his heart was racing out of control or if it was about to stop. “What if you couldn't forgive him for it?”

“I've thought of that,” she admitted. “But I don't know that there's anything I couldn't forgive, if I just knew.”

_Tell her._

“And what if he's not someone you thought you could be proud of?” spilled out of Vyvyan's mouth before he could stop himself.

She shook her head. “I'm not expecting some exotic prince or multi-billionaire,” she said softly. “I mean, there's a reason he gave me up, and it's likely that he couldn't afford to raise me. But no matter who or what he is, at least I would _know._ I hate the not knowing.”

“You know,” said Vyvyan hesitantly, “I don't know who my father is, either.”

Dr. Pratt looked up at him, her blue eyes interested. “Oh – are you adopted?”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I just . . . never knew. I don't think my mum knew.” He paused to look out the window a moment. “Sometimes, I suspected she _did_ know, but she kept it from me. But the kind of people she was around sometimes . . . that might've been for the best.” He looked back at Dr. Pratt. “That makes her sound awful. She wasn't a great mum, but she did what she could.”

“Did you ever think about trying to find your dad?”

He shook his head. “No. I was too afraid of what I'd find.” He paused a moment, looking down at his hands on the tabletop, and couldn't look up at her when he asked, “What if knowing just hurts you more?”

Dr. Pratt heaved a sigh. “Then I guess I'll deal with that when the time comes,” she replied. “Honestly, I'm very fortunate – I'm privileged; I know that much. I don't have anything to regret or wish for – my dads were everything I could've hoped for in parents. I mean, I wish I'd had Dadley longer, obviously. Especially now. He was always so good at reading people, and I've never had such a hard time of that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well – this whole week's been shit for that, but today's a perfect example,” she said. “All I did was try to treat a patient, which is our job as doctors, and Dr. Richmond all but exploded on me. I don't understand how she could've gone so cold on me, so quickly. And you . . . I really don't know what to make of you. Stephens thinks you're a creep, but he wasn't present for our first conversation. I was fairly certain you hated me twenty-four hours ago.”

That, he hadn't expected, and he scowled. “ _Hate_ you? I don't hate you! Why would you think that?”

Dr. Pratt's eyes flashed a little. “Well, that first conversation, for starters, when you said we weren't equals. And then the fact that nearly every time you open your mouth, you have something insulting to say.”

“Yes, but that's directed at Stephens.”

“But me, too!”

_Tell her,_ whispered Rick.

Vyvyan grew quiet a moment. “No,” he said, his voice low. “No, it isn't, Dr. Pratt.”

Her brow rumpled a little as she thought. “Dr. Richmond said that you wanted her and I to work together,” she began. “You said that wasn't true but I didn't believe you. Why would she have done that?”

Vyvyan was relieved to move away from the topic. “You are superior, academically, to Stephens,” he said. “Richmond believes the success of her student is her own personal success. She thinks academics are a faithful predictor of how well a student will do, and she's only willing to mentor students who've already done well. Stephens, on paper, wasn't likely to do well during his rotation this week, so she didn't want to take him on.”

She scowled a little. “That doesn't seem fair.”

“It isn't,” he replied. “Turns out Stephens hasn't done well, so she was right. But that doesn't mean Stephens won't do well in another speciality.”

“What do you think he might do well in?”

“Well, he's very methodical, so he might make a good surgeon,” said Vyvyan. He leaned on the table with his chin on his fist. “I referred him to Dr. Mathers, who's a surgical consultant here at the hospital. You could speak with him too, if you have any interest in surgery. Stephens might be good for epidemiology, as well.”

Dr. Pratt smiled at him a little. “Dr. Richmond said you hated students. The way you spoke to me that first day, and how angry you were, it was easy to believe.”

Vyvyan smiled back, but it faded. He could hear Rick's voice again.

_Tell her._

“I _was_ angry that day,” he confessed. “ _Really_ angry.”

“I don't blame you. Not anymore,” she replied.

He shook his head. “No . . . you don't understand. I. . . .” He cleared his throat. “I really am not fond of students. I don't hate them, but I'm not fond of them. But I'd been looking forward to this week ever since your paperwork crossed my desk.”

“Because I'm so academically superior?” she teased a little, her eyebrows raised.

“No. Because you came here, to me, out of the sodding blue. I thought I was finally getting a gift in life that wouldn't ultimately turn my insides out. For a moment I thought I was going to spend a week with you – one whole week, with you working by my side, after all this time. And that fucking cow Richmond stole you from me.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don't hate you. I've _never_ hated you; I could _never-”_ He had to pause to swallow again; the lump was becoming more insistent. _“Hate_ you.”

“Dr. Basterd . . . I don't understand.” Her features had softened and she wore an expression of genuine confusion. “Is that because you were friends with my dad?”

He shook his head. For a moment, he looked down at his hands, splayed across the cafeteria table; when he looked back up at her, he took a deep breath.

“Poppy, _my_ name is Vyvyan. Not your mum's.”

She stared at him for a long, painful moment. “What?”

Silently, Vyvyan reached into his trouser pocket to fish out his wallet and opened it briskly. Then he pulled a photo out of it, and handed it to Dr. Pratt.

She accepted the photo with shaking hands and looked it over. Eventually she recognized what she was looking at – a very young Vyvyan Basterd holding a tiny baby, smiling proudly. She gasped, and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

“Your mum's name was Zara Singh, and she loved you.”

Tears flooded Dr. Pratt's eyes as she looked over the photo. When she finally blinked they rolled down her cheeks in big hot waves.

“This is _me_?”

Vyvyan nodded. “And me.”

Dr. Pratt's brow furrowed over the photo as she touched it gently, whispering. “Ginger trihawk, studded forehead, septum piercing. Blue eyes.” She pulled the photo closer. “ _Blue eyes_.” A moment later she lifted her own, matching blue eyes to his, and stared for a moment, stunned. When she found her voice, it was shaky. “Does this mean . . . you're my father?”

His voice caught in his throat, but he answered her. “Yes.”

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_!” Her eyes had gone wide, and she was a little flushed. Tears continued to trickle down her cheeks. To Vyvyan's horror, she rose from her seat and came around the table, planting herself in the chair next to him and grabbing his hand.

“I have so many questions,” she said breathlessly, and she leaned in. “This makes _so much_ sense. This explains why Dad was so anxious the other day when I came home complaining about you. Why didn't you just tell me right away – why didn't you find me?”

“I didn't know you wanted to know,” he replied. A tear slipped down his cheek, which he steadfastly ignored.

She squeezed his hand tightly. “Of course I wanted to know.”

He looked down at her fingers wrapped around his and closed his eyes as the memory of her tiny infant fingers wrapping themselves around one of his sprang to mind. He drew in a shaky breath and then met her eyes again. “You have parents who love you. What on earth do you need _me_ for?”

She smiled a little through her tears. “You're my _father_ ,” she said, as though that explained everything. She sniffled, and squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. She held his gaze as she searched his eyes, thinking. “All those questions just now . . . about forgiving you. About . . . whether knowing would hurt more.” It seemed like she was holding her breath.  “I know that you knew about me. Do you feel guilty about giving me up?”

Vyvyan nodded.  “Yeah. 'Course I do. I never, ever wanted to.” Then he looked down at the photo she held in her hands, and saw the wad of napkins she'd recently been mopping her face with, which reminded him of why she'd been sitting alone in the cafeteria in the first place.

“Poppy – is it all right if I call you Poppy?”

She nodded, and her eyes filled again. “Yes – yes, please.”

“Why d'you want to be a doctor, Poppy? I'm not looking for the bollocks answer you give your professors about empathy and medical science. I want the real reason – the stupid, soppy one, or the mildly disturbing one.”

She held his gaze a moment. “It's stupid and soppy. I want to fix broken people – make the sick well again, patch up the wounded. I want to take pain away from people who are hurting.”

Vyvyan nodded, having expected as much. “I told Becky to call the police because I knew the moment I looked at that little boy that he wasn't on the bus. Someone did that intentionally – it's not usually the mum when it's violent like that, but I've been wrong before.”

She searched his eyes a moment, and found comfort in his unguarded expression. “Could I have saved him, Dr. Basterd?”

“Call me Vyvyan.”

She smiled a little, and sighed, and repeated it. “Vyvyan.”

His own name had never meant so much to him. He rubbed the favored spot over his heart and felt he might just burst.

Poppy blinked, and patted her eyes with the wadded napkins, and then seemed to re-focus herself. “Could I have saved that boy's life? If I'd known what I was doing? If I'd waited for Dr. Richmond, or for you, or another physician?”

“No, Poppy,” he replied softly. “More than likely when his mother handed him off to you he was already dead. Even if you could've revived him he'd still be in pain – the kind that you, as a physician, can't do anything about.”

She swallowed. “That doesn't help.”

“It never does,” he replied, with a hint of a smile. “Any psychologist will say you've got to take comfort in knowing you did everything you could, even when that's nothing. What they don't know is, it's never comforting. Being handed a dead child, especially when someone has the expectation that you can save him because you've got the magic title of _Doctor,_ will always make you feel useless. Dead's one thing you can't fix. You can prevent it, you can delay it, but you can't fix it. But there are worse conditions to find yourself in.” He swallowed the tightness in his throat again. “I learned that the hard way, when your mum died.”

Poppy was quiet a long moment, taking in every feature of Vyvyan's face. “Why did you become a doctor?”

He grinned. “It's mildly disturbing . . . call it a morbid fascination with how the human body works. Do they still dissect frogs in biology class?”

“I never dissected one,” she replied. “Seems inhumane – raising frogs just to take them apart.”

Vyvyan rolled his eyes. “Settle down, Rick, all right.” Poppy laughed, and he grinned back at her. “Point is, that's when I knew I wanted to be a doctor, when we dissected frogs at school. I always thought I'd be a surgeon, honestly. Or some kind of chemist – I liked chemistry.”

“Why aren't you one?”

He shrugged. “Would've been more school, and I was already sick of it by the time I hit my first foundation year. But the A&E department is chaos. Constantly – as you've seen this last week.” He shrugged. “Sums up my life. It's an odd kind of comfort.”

“That's why you chose emergency medicine – because it's comforting?”

He smiled. “There's a lot of psychology bollocks involved in explaining that,” he said.

She surprised him when she took his hand again, but he held it tight.

“Thank you. For the comfort . . . and for telling me who you are. I've wondered for a long time.”

He tilted his head. “Rick was here yesterday. He said you wanted to know. I wouldn't have told you, otherwise . . . I don't want to disrupt anyone's life. I don't want to replace anyone, Poppy – your parents, Rick and Bradley, they did what I couldn't.”

“Will you tell me more?” she asked, handing the treasured photo back to him. “About my mum . . . about you.”

“Anything you want to know,” he promised, pocketing the photo. “I have more pictures.”

Poppy smiled, and her eyes filled. “Oh blimey!” she exclaimed. “Really? You've got photos of my mum?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Not many, but some.”

“Okay. That's brilliant – come to supper tonight, yeah? Dad makes a decent vindaloo – it's veg, I hope that's okay. Bring everything you've got. And I'll bring some wine.”

Truthfully, Vyvyan's head was already swimming just a tiny bit, but he agreed to supper with Rick and Poppy before he could think about it too much and stupidly decline. “Yeah, all right,” he said. Then he paused to look her over, to make sure she was ready to hit the floor again. “It's about eleven thirty just now. If you like you can work with me the rest of the day, or I can find Richmond. Actually – scratch that. You're going home, doctor's orders.”

She smiled at him, and squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. “I could do with a nap. Will you be headed home soon?” When he nodded, she pulled a pen from the pocket of her scrubs and wrote her number down on a napkin. “Text me – I'll send you the address.”

He agreed, and she let him kiss her cheek before she walked away, and he'd throat-punch anyone who said he was crying as he watched her go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Day 5:  Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Poppy's final day at the hospital. You may have noticed that I've added a chapter - this was really getting too long for a single wrap-up chapter. The final chapter (An Evening With The Pratts) needs some edits, and then will be up in a few days.
> 
> Thanks once more to my beta reader/Brit picker, YouNeedAUserName222 <3

**Day 5: Forward**

 

Vyvyan sent a text to the number that Poppy had scrawled down on the napkin in the cafeteria.  She replied with the address and asked him to arrive any time after five o’clock.  It felt a little surreal to add her number into his phone; he stared at it a moment, at her name and the numbers, and then took a snap of the photo from his wallet to include as the profile picture.

He ambled up to the nurse’s station slowly, starting to really feel his lack of sleep.  Becky, the nurse from his earlier confrontation with Dr. Richmond, was there, as was a police inspector; unfortunately, Vyvyan knew her by name.  She went over the standard questions with him, and he confirmed what Becky had already told her. Vyvyan had been through similar discussions enough times that he knew the inspector would not be able to provide him with any further information on the boy or his family, but she was able to provide a name, and Vyvyan thought that might help Poppy.

It was close to noon when the inspector had gone.  Most of the additional staff in the A&E had departed, and it looked again as it usually did – busy but orderly, with a dash of occasional commotion sprinkled in.  Katherine raised her eyebrows when he approached her as she stood sentry at the nurse's station.

“The kitchens make a sandwich to your liking, Your Majesty?”

He smiled, a little.  “I ate,” he replied. “Sorry, Kat.”

“I should retire and leave you to your self destructive ways,” she grumbled.

“You should,” he replied, “but you'll work with me until one of us expires.”

She raised her brows again, looking over the paperwork in front of her. “Becks thought you were going to this morning,” she said. “She's never seen you so angry.”

Vyvyan leaned on the counter. “It's been a while since I've been that angry.”

“I’m worried about you, Vyv,” she said, raising her eyes from the task in front of her.

“You usually are.”

“Well, I’ll grant you that. But today, I have specific concerns.”

“Such as?”

“Such as my earlier conversation with Becky in which she indicated that you behaved like an actual human toward a medical student?”

Vyvyan smiled. “See, and you always say I’m not capable. It’s not true, I just never liked any of them.”

“And why d’you like this one?”

He shrugged. “No reason.”

“Oh, you are a horseshit liar, Dr. Basterd. Becky said you _hugged_ that girl.”

“So I’m not allowed to hug people?”

Katherine just sighed. “Vyvyan. Tell me who that girl is.”

Vyvyan went quiet a moment, and made sure he had Katherine's eyes. “She’s my daughter,” he whispered.

“Vyv,” gasped Katherine. “You have a daughter? I didn’t know – how’ve I worked with you these twenty years and didn’t know?”

“She’s not _really_ my daughter,” he explained. “I mean, she is. I was still a student when she was born – it’s a long story. I had to give her up.”

Katherine’s hand went up to touch his arm. “Oh – Vyv. Did you know she was coming?”

Vyvyan shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Not until a few weeks ago – I didn’t even know she was in medical school.” He hadn't wanted to tell Katherine – hadn't really wanted to tell anyone, just yet. He really just wanted to hold the idea that he could have Poppy in his life close to his chest, in case he woke up and all of it had been a cruel dream. But Katherine had been a friend to him, and an advocate – if she'd been anyone else he'd have clammed up. “She was adopted by an old friend of mine – the one who stopped by the other day.”

Katherine examined Vyvyan's face closely. “You know . . . I thought she looked a bit like you. It's the eyes, innit?”

He turned a little pink and chuckled.

“Well – I'm astonished, and you know there's not much still surprises me. Oh, but she is beautiful, Vyv – brilliant, too.”

“Keep it close for a while, Kat?” he asked, his eyes soft. “I don't know if she'd want everyone to know. We haven't talked over everything yet . . . there's still so much.”

She put her hand on his arm. “O'course, Vyv.”

“Thanks, Kat. I'm going to have dinner with them this evening. Don't read into it.”

She was all business again. “I shall read into whatever I like, thank you,” she replied, and she nodded. “Also, I approve. You can tell your old friend we all think his daughter is brilliant. Off you go, then – you've been here too long, go take a nap.”

He walked home slowly, processing everything that had happened that day. He knew the earful from Dr. Condy-Baldock about fighting over a patient with another physician was coming, but couldn't bring himself to care. And he could fill the good doctor's ear with plenty about Richmond, if he wanted to. He didn't usually want to – it felt too much like childish tattling. But he was still angry about the way she'd treated Poppy.

_His_ Poppy.

Rick's Poppy, too. And that bastard Bradley. But she was his before she was theirs. He was grateful they'd made her theirs, but that didn't change the fact that she was his first.

But dinner with Rick and Poppy was not to be – he was called in again, although not for an emergency. Two of the three physicians scheduled to work the overnight found themselves indisposed. One was stuck at an airport in Spain and the other had become violently ill thanks to some bad sushi. He was asked to arrive by eight o’clock, and so he figured he’d better get what sleep he could.

Poppy was understanding, of course, but he could hear the uncertainty in her voice over the phone. He reassured her as best as he could and promised, as recompense for the missed dinner, to steal her from Dr. Richmond as often as possible when she came in to do her final shift. She also extracted a promise to come to dinner Friday night instead.

When he arrived at the hospital Vyvyan found, to his great consternation, that Dr. Condy-Baldock had scheduled a meeting with him at two in the afternoon the next day. He’d known it was coming, but it still irritated him.

Thankfully, the overnight was relatively quiet, and he liked working with the remaining overnight physician, Dr. Franklin, who gave him the opportunity to sleep for a while in the wee hours. Dr. Richmond arrived sometime around five-thirty AM, and seemed bent on ignoring him, which was great news.

But what was even better news was that Poppy arrived at six AM as scheduled, fresh-faced and smiling. At him.

“Good morning Dr. Basterd,” she chirped as he approached where she stood next to Dr. Stephens.

He was yawning, but returned her smile. “Morning, Dr. Pratt. Dr. Stephens.”

Stephens gave a sideways glance at Poppy, and then greeted him with a nod. “Have you been here long, sir?” he asked.

“Nah,” replied Vyvyan. “Only ten hours. S’nothing. But I could use some tea, and you and I have an interview to do, so let’s take advantage of the quiet morning, shall we?”

“All right,” said Stephens with a nod at Poppy. “I’ll see you later, Pen.”

Her face clouded over a moment. Vyvyan put his hand on her arm. “Lunch today?” he asked.

She brightened immediately. “Yes – sounds great!”

Vyvyan smiled at her and headed off with Stephens, who turned back a moment to glance at Poppy in confusion before he trotted after the senior doctor.

“You know . . . she really confuses me,” he said once he’d caught up.

Vyvyan turned. “Who does? Dr. Pratt?”

“Yes,” replied Stephens. “She’s friendly enough, but she really only responds when I call her Dr. Pratt. I didn’t think she stood so much on formality.”

“Well what else would you call her?”

“Just there – when I called her by her first name, she scowled at me.”

“That wasn’t a scowl, Stephens. When she scowls at you, you’ll know it. Also, that wasn’t her name.”

“It was,” protested the junior doctor. “Her name’s Penelope.”

Vyvyan stopped dead in the hallway; it took a moment for Stephens to realize it and circle back to him. “At what point did she invite you to call her Pen?”

“Well. . . .”

“She didn’t, did she?”

“Well . . . erm . . . no, not implicitly, but-”

“That’s ‘cause her name’s Poppy. But she didn’t invite you to call her that, either, did she?”

“No. . . .”

“And has she called you Aidan or Jayden or Brayden or whatever the bloody hell your stupid millennial name is?”

“Erm . . . no. But actually, it's-”

“This isn’t a difficult concept, Stephens. I know she’s a girl and all, but you don’t get to just remove the title she earned, same as you.”

“I’m not . . . I’m not sexist,” he replied, holding his hands up. “I was just trying to be friendly, really-”

“You keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night,” said Vyvyan. “Just call her Dr. Pratt and you’ll get on fine. Right?”

“Right,” Stephens responded, nodding vigorously. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

Vyvyan’s interview with Stephens was actually productive, despite the spat over Poppy’s name. He really wasn’t a fan of students, but having been subjected to disinterested-at-best mentoring while he himself was a medical student, he recognized the need for thoughtful guidance from senior doctors and did what he could to provide that.

When he had lunch with Poppy later that day, she asked about his education experience. He’d really never talked so openly about it before; no one knew he’d had a child that he’d given up, so whenever he talked about his education, he omitted all of 1988 and most of 1989. She wanted to know about those years specifically, so they opted to go for a walk around the neighborhood once they'd eaten. As he talked, he felt like he was laying his soul bare.

That was mostly because she’d asked a question that must've been very difficult to ask. “Was it a relief, in some way? Once I was settled with my parents?”

“Jesus, no,” was his quick reply. “Poppy . . . it was _painful_. I don’t know how to say how awful it was. Worse than losing Zara, and I blamed myself for Zara's death. And the only way I knew how to deal with that kind of pain was vodka, so that’s how I dealt with it. I was well on my way to getting myself kicked out of school when I finally straightened up.” He rubbed the scar on the left side of his forehead, where a star-shaped stud once sat, the one he’d told Poppy had met a brutal end. “That wasn’t without its own pain, honestly.”

“Didn’t you have a mentor? Or someone else you could confide in?”

“I did. You had to have one even then, although it’s all so much more regimented now. But he was useless. Wouldn’t call me by either of my names – it was always just ‘Doctor’, which I hated. I’d always thought that would be the greatest thing, right? To be called Doctor. And then . . . well, your mum was the only person who ever got away with calling me Vyvvie, and when you came along I got to call myself Dad. Those were so much better than Doctor. I resented having to go back to that – just Doctor. It felt impersonal, particularly from someone who was supposed to be helping me.”

“You couldn’t switch?”

Vyvyan smiled. “If you’ve ever been profoundly stubborn and stupid with your parents or other authority figures in your life, you have me to thank,” he replied. “Zara, too, but mostly me. I wouldn’t have thought to ask at the time. His name was Westbrook and he was about fifteen years past when he ought to have retired – one of those posh, uptight people, well thought of because they’re upper class, like Dr. Condy-Baldock. The kind of person who you don’t question or cross ‘cause there’s no point. He never asked that much that was personal, which was fine by me, but of course I was young and stupid at the time. He didn’t know about you; didn’t know Zara had died until he pulled me aside to scold me for being seen kissing another man.”

“You had a boyfriend?”

“I’d say that, but Patrick wouldn’t have,” he explained. “I was just starting to sort myself out, all kinds of things at once – grieving Zara, and you. I thought I didn’t know who I was anymore, but really I never had, which was part of why losing the two of you was so hard. I loved being your dad; I loved being your mum’s partner. And at the time – the mid-eighties – being the slightest bit gay and in the medical profession was career suicide. Everyone was afraid you’d give them AIDS. Some people still are.”

“Is there anyone special in your life now?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve dated – a few women, a few men. Some longer term relationships, but no one really special.”

“And no other children?”

“No. I never asked – do you have brothers or sisters?”

“No, sadly. Dad once told me that when I was about two, they were all set to adopt a baby – a little boy they called David. He was born and they brought him home and everything. But the birth mother backed out of it, so they had to bring him back. Dad wanted to try again, but Dadley’s heart was broken.”

For a moment a very small part of Vyvyan took sadistic pleasure in Bradley’s pain, but since it was a pain Vyvyan knew all too well, he couldn’t enjoy it for long.

“Seems odd,” he said off-handedly. “I never thought I’d identify with him; not in a million years.”

“With Dadley?” She seemed incredulous.

“Nah. Never liked him.” Vyvyan had, in fact, always hated him, but was sensible enough to not be quite so explicit about it with Poppy.

“He was hard to read sometimes,” she said in his defense. “He hid behind a tough exterior, but he really was kind.”

Vyvyan thought he was incredibly selective about who he showed that kindness to. “As long as he was kind to you, that’s all that matters to me.”

“Why didn’t you like him?”

He let out a long breath, pondering how much he should tell Poppy. He didn’t want to hurt her by insulting the man who raised her, but he did want to be honest with her. He at least owed her that. “I wish I could say it was because he took you from me,” he said at length. “But I didn’t like him from the very start, and I met him before you were born. And sometimes I wish I could say it was because he took Rick from me, but that was my fault, too – I pushed Rick away, more than once.”

“Did you have feelings for Dad?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Ugh . . . I had _every_ feeling for Rick, at one time or another. But the more positive ones, I think you could say had started to develop. I dismissed them because Rick was the first real friend I'd ever had, and I didn't know what real friendship felt like. I didn’t want to ruin it – he was taken anyway.” He realized what he’d said and cringed. “Don’t go telling Rick that – his head’s big enough as it is.”

She laughed; he wanted to grab her hand and squeeze it, but put his hands in the pockets of his scrubs to squash the notion.

“The thing about Bradley was that he was posh, and I hated him for that just because I’d always been resentful of posh people. I’d always been poor, always had to fight for every extra scrap of anything I got and I hated people who didn’t have to do that. I even hated Rick for that, at one point. And in some measure I was still an angry little boy without any real parental figure or direction, while Bradley knew himself and lived his truth out loud, damn the consequences. And I was just . . . loud. I couldn’t afford to damn the consequences.”

They walked along quietly for a few moments while Vyvyan thought. There were other things he hated Bradley for, in a much deeper way – the way he treated Vyvyan like a leper every time he saw him being the biggest reason. He still remembered the condescending tone of voice Bradley would use, and the fact that he would dumb everything down, even when he didn’t need to, as though he were talking to a child. Bradley belittled him in a way no one had been able to do since he was a child and it still made him want to punch things. Like Bradley.

But Poppy didn’t need to know all of that – he was obviously faultless in her eyes, which was something he couldn’t begrudge her. It was also something he didn’t really want to continue discussing, so he asked about her interview with Dr. Richmond.

She shrugged. “It went all right, I guess. She won’t talk about what happened yesterday. She just brushed it aside when I asked about it and said it was water under the bridge – like I’d offended her or something.” She shook her head watched a bus drive by. “It doesn’t _really_ matter; I have plenty to write a paper on. When she was done with me I was apparently annoyed enough that Katherine felt she needed to pull me aside. She said I was starting to look scowly-faced, like you.”

Vyvyan laughed. “Well that’s appropriate.”

She smiled. “Actually, I thought I might as well ask Katherine what she thought of the situation. We had a good talk; I like her a lot.”

“I’m glad. I’ve worked with Katherine a long time – nearly twenty years.”

“She’s got nothing but praise for you,” said Poppy.

Vyvyan was quiet a moment, walking along the lane. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Speaking of Katherine, Poppy . . . she asked me yesterday who you were. I told her; I felt I had to. But I asked her to keep it to herself.”

There was a pause, and then a quiet, disappointed “Oh.”

Vyvyan was quick to reassure her. “Bollocks – that came out all wrong. It's not because I didn't _want_ to tell her. It all still seems a little surreal. I wasn't sure if you wanted anyone to know, but I trust Kat.”

“Well – I still haven't told Dad,” she admitted. “Honestly, I was really excited yesterday and then when you canceled I got a little insecure about the whole thing. But the sleep helped – a lot.”

He smiled at her. “Always does.”

“I don't want to have to hide anything,” she explained.

“You don't have to,” he agreed. “But you still don't know everything, either.”

“But you're coming to supper tonight,” she reminded him, smiling softly. “And you've got those photos.”

“Yeah. You know. . . .” He looked over at her for a long moment.

“What?”

“You really just have to look in a mirror, to know what your mum looked like.”

She colored. “I'm glad you have the photos all the same. And I expect to see a lot more denim and styling product than I would wear – on both of you.”

They had just about arrived back at the hospital again, and some sirens caught both sets of ears. They stopped and watched as two ambulances pulled into the drive.

“We've got visitors!” declared Vyvyan.

Poppy laughed. “Well let's go greet them, then!” she said, and followed him when he broke into a run.

 

* * *

 

When two o'clock rolled around he reported, as requested, to Dr. Condy-Baldock's office. Rather than the confrontation he was expecting, the consultant indicated that he wanted to “chat.”

Vyvyan _hated_ chats. He'd much rather have a confrontation.

The consultant adopted a condescending tone of voice and reiterated behavioral expectations, and the hospital's policy on medical students, and who was responsible for their actions, and then droned on for a while about best practices during crises in the A&E. None of it was anything Vyvyan hadn't heard before, but at least he wasn't asking Vyvyan to apologize to Richmond.

If he had, there would've been a confrontation – a bloody good one.

But then Dr. Condy-Baldock shifted the conversation to something Vyvyan didn't expect.

“I, erm . . . I understand you invited a junior doctor to dine with you.”

Caught off-guard, he raised an eyebrow. “That’s vaguely correct. I had lunch with a junior doctor today.”

“Doctor Pratt-Langford.”

He nodded. “Dr. Pratt.  Yes.”

“You’re aware Dr. Pratt-Langford is a _junior_ doctor – your subordinate, for all intents and purposes.” The consultant folded his hands on top of his desk like a school teacher.

“Why yes, sir, I _am_ aware that Dr. Pratt is a junior doctor. I believe we've both said that twice now.”

“And you’re also aware that Dr. Pratt-Langford is a woman . . . significantly younger than yourself.”

Vyvyan nodded again. “Yes.  I am aware.”

“And so you must be aware of how that looks.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t.  How does it look?”

“Surely you must be aware that it does look like you may have attempted to. . . .”  Dr. Condy-Baldock cleared his throat.  “Well, to initiate an inappropriate kind of relationship with Dr. Pratt-Langford; one of a romantic nature.”

Vyvyan squinted at him.  “Are you _joking_?”

The consultant's jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “I’m not, Dr. Basterd.  This is a very serious matter.”

“And where _exactly_ d’you get the idea that I’d like to get _romantic_ with Dr. Pratt?”

He unfolded his large, bony hands to pick up a few pieces of paper that had been resting under them. “One of your peers expressed concern over the situation – I’ve got the complaint here.  It indicates that during the week that Dr. Pratt-Langford has been here doing her taster course, you’ve been caught looking at her frequently.  Ordinarily that would’ve been a minor concern, but I’m told that yesterday, after Dr. Pratt-Langford apparently lost a patient, she was distraught. There was a confrontation with raised voices-”

“Which _Richmond_ started,” Vyvyan was quick to point out.

Dr. Condy-Baldock ignored him. “-after which you pulled a tearful Dr. Pratt-Langford into an embrace behind closed doors.”

“I had to! She was hysterical!”

“Later that afternoon you were seen engaging in what is described as a passionate conversation in the cafeteria. And this morning another junior doctor informed me that you'd become very familiar with Dr. Pratt-Langford in body language and gestures, and that you had berated him for addressing her the wrong way. He's deeply concerned about his colleague.”

“Stephens is socially inept,” said Vyvyan. “I can't help that he hasn't worked out how to talk to people.”

The consultant cleared his throat primly, and added, “And of course we don't want to make assumptions, but you _were_ observed leaving the grounds during lunch; you were apparently flushed when you returned.”

Vyvyan's scowl was so deep it almost hurt. “Well that is _ridiculous_!”

“So you’re denying these claims?” His expression was actually hopeful.

“I can’t – all of that bollocks is true, even if you make it sound pervy.  I’m not having relations with Dr. Pratt – that’s bloody disgusting!”

The hope fizzled. “Dr. Basterd, I must request that you keep your voice down and choose more dignified words.”

“And I must request that all this girly bloody gossip stops,” he spat.

“Doctor, this is a genuine concern!”  Dr. Condy-Baldock could properly be described as nettled.  “You’ve been overheard this morning calling Dr. Pratt-Langford by her given name – a gentle breach of protocol, but still a breach. If you were peers it wouldn't matter, but you aren't.  Please do take this seriously.”

Vyvyan could not stop himself from rolling his eyes.  He sat back in his chair and sighed.  “Right, look.” He cleared his throat, and rubbed his forehead. “Sir, Dr. Pratt. She's. . . . She's my daughter.”

There was a long pause. “I beg your pardon?”

“She's my daughter,” he repeated. “She was born while I was still in school. Her mum died, and I gave her up.”

The consultant's eyes had gone wide. “Vyvyan, I . . . had no idea you. . . .”

“No one did.” Vyvyan cleared his throat, vaguely impressed that Dr. Condy-Baldock knew his first name. “It's a long story and I'm sure I don't need to be bored telling you the particulars. Yesterday in the cafeteria is when I told her who I am. We discussed some very private things at lunch today, which is why we went for a walk. I presume parent-child relationships aren't forbidden amongst staff and students. Although, even if they were, legally speaking there isn't one.”

“Well . . . I must say, Dr. Basterd. I am _flummoxed_. But quite frankly grateful that I won't have to file a sexual harassment complaint against you.”

Vyvyan nodded in acknowledgment and waited for his superior to say something more; when he didn't, Vyvyan shrugged. “Would you mind setting the record straight with Dr. Richmond?” he asked. “I'm not on the friendliest of terms with her at the moment. She yelled at my baby girl. I really was trying to keep it professional, sir, but as I'm sure you can understand, there was a little emotion involved.”

Dr. Condy-Baldock nodded in agreement. “Yes – yes, of course, Dr. Basterd. Why don't you go on back to the floor and send Dr. Richmond in, when she can get away. I'll speak with her.”

Vyvyan thanked him and rose, grateful to have escaped relatively unscathed. He really hadn't wanted to tell anyone quite yet, but the presumptions Dr. Richmond and Dr. Stephens (damn Stephens!) had made about what was going on between he and Poppy were ludicrous.

When he arrived on the floor, a summarily unimpressed Dr. Richmond was shaking hands with Poppy; it seemed they were making their goodbyes. 

“Oi, Richmond!” he called, and she turned expectantly, ignoring Poppy, who was mid-sentence. When Vyvyan caught up with her, he said, “Dr. Condy-Baldock wants to see you in his office. Something about filing complaints against peer physicians without having any bloody idea what's happening around you – it was vague; I don't remember what he said, exactly. I know you're not good at this, but you should probably clarify, ask some questions before you just, you know, _react_.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So Dr. Condy-Baldock is ready to see me right now?”

“Yes, that's what I said. Were you and Dr. Pratt just wrapping things up?”

“Oh – we're finished, Dr. Basterd,” volunteered Poppy; she smiled saccharinely at Dr. Richmond, and then walked toward the nurse's station.

“Well, that's nice.” Vyvyan fixed Dr. Richmond a winning smile.

“That's not what I'd call it,” she replied.

“You did that to yourself,” he pointed out. “She thought you were the dog's bollocks before you blew up on her. Oh, and by the by, Doc, just so you're aware, you'll want to keep your pen handy for writing more complaints.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He gestured toward Poppy. “I'm probably going to sexually harass her dad tonight.”

All the reply Dr. Richmond had for him was a slightly open mouth. She didn't even move, for a moment.

“Just so you're prepared.” He patted Richmond on the arm, smiled, and walked away, joining Poppy further down the hall.

“Vyvyan,” Poppy began, peering up at him.  “D’you . . . you know. . . .”

He looked down at her, smiling slightly. “Do I what?”

She cleared her throat and stole a glance at the closed A&E doors, through which Dr. Richmond had just disappeared.  “Call him Dr. Cunty-Ballocks?”

Vyvyan raised his eyebrows.  “Poppy, that would be childish and unprofessional.”

She looked away, sheepishly.  “Right.”

“’Course I call him Cunty-Ballocks.  I can’t bring myself to call him his real name at all – I have to call him ‘sir’ all the time.  It’s tiresome.”

Poppy laughed, and it was open and bright and it made him smile openly despite his lingering agitation.

“More chaos then, Dr. Basterd?” she asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

He nodded. “After you, Dr. Pratt.”

 


	6. An Evening With The Pratts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Rick Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope if you're reading this you've enjoyed the story so far; this is the last chapter. Even though I cut it down, it's still long - but I think it works OK.
> 
> Thanks once again to my beta reader and Brit-picker YouNeedAUserName222!!

**An Evening with the Pratts**

 

Vyvyan worked for another hour before he surrendered to both Katherine and Poppy's insistence that he be done for the day. Once home, he set an alarm and fell into an exhausted sleep. When the alarm woke him several hours later he wasn't sure he dreamed, but his first thoughts as the late-afternoon sun streamed in through the blinds were of Poppy as a tiny baby, of holding her close between himself and Zara on the day she was born. He'd delivered Poppy himself, the first baby he'd ever delivered, and then as now he felt an inexplicable lightness. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

He'd also apparently forgotten what he looked like in regular clothes, because as he stood looking in the mirror in his closet he thought his outfit might be missing something. But no, it was all there – black trousers, blue button-down shirt, cuff links in place, belt on. What he'd said to Katherine about being perfectly healthy was true – his job was much too rough, physically and spiritually, to not keep himself in shape, and he looked healthy. But he still thought he looked _wrong_ , somehow – he couldn't remember the last time he wasn't wearing scrubs.

Vyvyan drove to the address Poppy had given him with a box containing all of his memories in the front seat. Inside the box was an album, made mostly of photos, but a few other bits and bobs, as well. In honor of her eighteenth birthday, a little more than six years ago, he'd paid an obscene amount of money for an archivist to construct it from the remnants of the relevant years, just in case she'd ever want it.

His hands were sweaty and he held the box tightly as he rang the bell. Poppy answered it, with a bright smile and boundless energy, and ushered him inside.

“Dad's not home yet,” she chattered, leading him into the sitting room. “And he's not answering his phone, so I don't know where he is, really.” She invited him to sit and then went to fetch both of them a glass of wine.

He eyed a leather wing-backed chair but didn't sit in it; he just held the box a little closer. He hadn't looked at the things inside it often in the last twenty-four years, but he had occasionally, and he'd always known they were there. When he left Rick's house that evening, he'd be leaving it all in Poppy's hands. That had been every bit his intention when the album was put together; it was every bit hers to have. But it still felt like a loss.

“Did you have any trouble finding the house?” she asked as she re-entered the sitting room with the wine.

He shook his head. “No, not at all.”

She handed him one of the glasses; he thanked her. “Go ahead, have a seat. Did you get some sleep?”

“I did,” he replied, and maneuvered himself into the wing-backed chair. He set the box on the coffee table and sipped his wine. “But I'm used to all that.”

“I suppose whatever I choose, I should probably get used to an oddball schedule.”

He smiled. “At least for the remainder of your education, and your residencies,” he replied. “Speaking of which, Poppy – erm . . . I was thinking that you might want to consider re-taking the course.”

Her eyes widened a little, and she lowered her chin. “D'you mean – emergency medicine?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You might benefit from an unbiased instructor. And with everything that happened-”

She held up a gentle hand, and he fell silent. “I, erm . . . Vyvyan, there wasn't much chance I was going to choose emergency medicine as a speciality.”

Vyvyan was crestfallen and unsuccessful at hiding it. “Oh.”

“Oh, please don't look so heartbroken!” she pleaded, cringing. “I've had my heart set on surgery for the longest time. I mean, it has been a _very_ illuminating week, and – personal revelations aside – it's been very valuable. And actually you've helped quite a lot.”

That soothed him a little. “How so?”

“Well, you said I could talk to Dr. Mathers, the surgical consultant,” she said. “I have a taster course scheduled for general surgery but couldn't find anything more specific. So before I left the hospital today I took a chance and dropped by his office. He's agreed to let me shadow him for a week.”

Vyvyan's face lit up. “He's a brilliant trauma surgeon,” said Vyvyan. “And a good man. Always liked him.”

“Well he thinks very highly of you,” said Poppy. “I mentioned your name and he was ready to let me scrub in right then and there.”

He chuckled and turned bright pink, choosing to respond by taking a gulp from his wine glass.

“Anyway – I'm very excited. I hope you're not too disappointed?”

“No, not at all, Poppy. Well. A little,” he admitted. “But if you do choose trauma surgery you will likely work very closely with A&E doctors. You've got your first experience with that.”

She smiled at him. “I really do like everyone there. Even Dr. Richmond, before she went volcanic.” She sipped her wine. “Can I see what you've brought?” she asked, gesturing to the box on the coffee table.

That caught him off-guard a little. “You don't want to wait for Rick?”

She paused a moment, considering. “I want to see my mum,” she said, a little pleading in her voice.

He smiled at her, and set down his wine glass. “I suppose it's been quite long enough.”

Seated on the couch, she smiled widely and scooted over a little, patting the spot next to her. Vyvyan rose and picked up the box, and sat there. He took the lid off the box and handed her the photo album. She opened the cover, and a watery smile started on her face as Vyvyan watched her drink in the sight of her mother for the first time.

“Hello, Mummy.” Gently, she caressed the photo that graced the first page of the album. It was his favorite photo of Zara; she was looking directly into the camera – into Vyvyan's soul, he often thought – with a perked eyebrow.

Poppy turned to him after a long moment, and it was the same look. “Did you love her?”

“Oh yes,” he whispered. “Very much.”

She turned back to the photo, and just stared at it for a long moment. A tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand.

“It would interest you to know that she was also a medical student,” he began softly, as she looked through the photos.  “We met in 1985, so we were together just over three years. She liked whatever her parents hated – me, for example.  Loud music, loud people.  Anything bright and fantastic and over the top.  And vodka – until you were on the way, of course.”

Poppy's tears flowed as she looked over the paltry collection of photos he had, and he told her the tale. They'd met at an autopsy, laughing at another poor student who'd become ill during the proceedings. Vyvyan had only laughed; Zara had laughed but moved to help the other student, and Vyvyan liked her pretty scowl so much he followed to help. From then, they'd been inseparable. Zara matched his energy and curiosity; she made him think about other people. With Zara he reacted less and listened more. He wished he knew what, if anything, he'd done for her.

He told Poppy about Zara's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Singh, who'd have been happy as clams for the two of them to see each other and eventually marry – if Vyvyan were the least bit upper class. They'd objected in the strongest terms to his lack of a father, his bartender mother and her history of petty crimes, not to mention Vyvyan's whole look. If that had ever bothered Zara, he might've changed, but she liked him just as he was. _They_ wanted him to change – into a literal different person.

When they discovered Poppy was on the way, she'd expected them to demand a wedding. But they didn't – they demanded that she choose between themselves and Vyvyan.

“She chose you,” smiled Poppy through her tears. “I'm so glad.”

“Me too,” said Vyvyan, although that wasn't necessarily true. He'd spent a lot of time questioning whether Zara would still be alive if she'd made a different decision. But that also led him to question whether Poppy would've even been born, and trying to decide which life was more valuable was impossible.

Poppy closed the album gently and smoothed her hand over the top of it. “That was the easy part,” she said, and she lifted her eyes to Vyvyan's. “Tell me the hard part.”

Against his will, tears sprang to his eyes, and he tried to banish them by clearing his throat. “Right. Well.”

“Did she overdose?” asked Poppy gently, tilting her head at Vyvyan. “When I spoke to her parents, they said it didn't matter what her name was; among other things, they said she was an addict.”

He shook his head in disgust. “They _would've_ – never took a moment to understand her at all.” Here he had to pause a moment to collect his jumbled thoughts. “She had postpartum depression. Baby blues, they called it back then, like she was just a little down and needed a stiff drink and a proper nap. I thought it was just all the changes, and her parents' reaction to everything. They wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't lay eyes on you. She was sad and I knew it, but I thought she'd adjust; I just had to give her enough space and time. And back then the general wisdom on postpartum depression was just that mums had to keep a stiff upper lip, and it would pass.  But I came home from doing a long shift at the hospital and you were in your cot, screaming.  She was on the sofa with a needle in her arm.”  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “She did overdose, but it was on purpose. I never found out where she got the morphine from.”

Poppy held his gaze, her hands held protectively around the album in front of her. “How old was I when she died?”

“Three months,” he replied. “You were born February third; she died on May sixth.”

“Did you give me up right away?”

“No. I tried so hard, Poppy.” He leaned forward and took one of her hands. “I never wanted to give you up. But I had no one else. My mum was still alive at the time and she'd watch you at first, but she was never really interested. She helped me find someone to care for you while I was at lectures and working at the hospital, and we lived with her after Zara died.”

“With your mum?”

“Yeah. Just for a while.” He nodded, and swallowed the lump in his throat, rubbing the favored spot on his chest, and made himself continue. “I never saw you. I barely had any opportunity to feed you, or rock you to sleep, or change your nappy . . . or just hold you.” He paused for a minute, trying to control the shaking in his voice, and held Poppy's hand a little tighter.

“And I just kept thinking about what kind of life I'd be able to give you. I kept thinking about how I didn't know the first thing about properly raising a child, and I didn't have anyone to show me. I missed Zara horribly, and I felt guilty about her death, and I was never there for you. I thought about dropping out of school, but then I'd have had to take some menial job to survive. I didn't want you to have to grow up poor, or without parents. I wanted better for you and I knew I couldn't provide that.”

Poppy squeezed his hand. “So how did you connect with Rick?”

Vyvyan's eyes shone. “I had to get to an exam and Margaret - the lady who cared for you - had fallen ill, so she wouldn't take you. So I just started calling people. Rick was the last person I expected to help, but he and Bradley cared for you for a few days while Margaret recovered. They took good care of you. I mean, you were always a good baby but you seemed really happy, when you were with them. I'd been thinking about it a while. Bradley hated me – he obviously thought I was a good-for-nothing tosspot – but he adored you.”

She smiled at him, and pressed his hand. “Dadley never hated anyone, Vyvyan,” she assured him.

Vyvyan chuckled and patted her hand. “I know he's your dad and you love him,” he said, “but Poppy, I am as certain that he hated me as I am that the sky is blue.”

“Well, I will take that up with Dad, but I don't believe it.” Vyvyan chuckled a little, and Poppy smiled. “I think Dad said I was about six months old?”

He nodded, and focused on their entwined hands. “Six months, two weeks, and two days. It was August 19th; I took you to the solicitor's office with everything you had. Reviewed the paperwork, bickered with Bradley over a few things. Signed the papers. And then Rick and Bradley, and the solicitor, all left the conference room. You fell asleep in my arms, and I held you for as long as I could.” Tears started trickling down his cheeks, but he shifted his gaze up to hers. “It was about an hour. I whispered to you . . . I told you I was sorry and that I loved you. I told you to bite Bradley's fingers and kick him in the shins.”

She huffed a little laugh, shedding tears herself.

“And then Rick came into the room again, and I put you in his arms. Kissed your head. Touched your cheeks, one last time – you had the fluffiest baby cheeks. And then I left.”

Poppy sniffled. “It must've been so hard.”

“Torture,” he said. “I felt so empty.”

She smiled sadly at him, and then pulled him in for a hug. And this time when he wrapped his arms around her it was all heaven, like a missing piece of his soul had been returned, and he felt maybe he could be whole again.

When she let go she gently wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb. There was a faint dinging from the kitchen then, and she drew in a settling breath, and let it out. “I think that's supper; I'd better go check on it,” she said. She handed him the album and rose, headed for the kitchen.

Vyvyan opened the album and looked one last time at the picture of Zara on the first page. He touched it with his fingertips, as Poppy had, and smiled a little sadly. He couldn't help but think how proud Zara would've been of Poppy, or how much she'd have loved it that her daughter wanted to be a surgeon. After a lot of struggle, he'd gotten to a point where he remembered her very fondly, but he still missed her, and knew he always would. He wondered idly, as he closed the album, if Poppy would object to keeping it.

He listened to her shuffle around in the kitchen for a moment or two, and then stood and picked up the box, nestling the album inside before closing the lid. Then he heard a door open and close, and Poppy's muffled voice, and footsteps. He set the box down and straightened up.

“Poppy, have you got something in the oven? I said I'd make supper-”

Rick stopped cold when he entered the sitting room, and stared at Vyvyan.

Vyvyan stared right back, but not in surprise. Rick's blue eyes and bearded face were a welcome sight, especially when he gave Vyvyan a soft smile that absolutely did not make his stomach turn upside-down like a stupid soppy bastard girl. “Hello, Rick.”

Rick took a few steps closer. “Vyvyan.”

He returned Rick's smile and explained, “Poppy invited me to supper.”

“You've made friends, then?” Rick's eyebrows rose hopefully, and Vyvyan admired the way his eyes softened.

Poppy joined them, tossing a kitchen towel over her shoulder. “You didn't answer _any_ of my texts!”

Rick apologized and kissed her cheek, and then hugged her. “I'm sorry, darling; my battery died. I see we've got a guest for supper.”

She nodded and smiled widely when they separated, and took Rick's hand. “Yeah. I didn't think you'd mind . . . dinner with an old friend.” She looked over at Vyvyan and put her hand on his arm, and then met Rick's eyes again. “He told me, Dad.”

Rick looked over at Vyvyan. “You did.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and nodded.

“Oh, thank god!” he exclaimed, and looked visibly relieved. “I had no idea how I was going to keep my mouth shut!” Then he grabbed Poppy again, and wrapped his arms around her as she laughed. He kissed her head.

Vyvyan smiled at the pair of them, shoving away his old feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. And then Rick unexpectedly reached for him, and so did Poppy; the warmth he felt was unexpected and welcome, and made him uncomfortable at the same time.

Rick pulled away from him, and then from Poppy, and held her at arm's length. “You're all right, darling?” he asked, tucking stray strands of her glossy hair behind her ears.

She wiped an unexpected tear away. “Yes, I'm fine. It's a lot to take in all at once, so unexpectedly. But Vyvyan brought photos – I know what my mum looked like, and where I got blue eyes from.”

“They look a sight better on you than they do me,” said Vyvyan.

Poppy chuckled, and Rick offered to fetch wine; Poppy shooed them off to the dining room to sit down at the table while she brought out the lasagna she'd made.

The three of them ate companionably. Vyvyan steered as much of the conversation as he could, asking questions about Rick's charity work and Poppy's school experience, but was inevitably forced to give up a few details of his own. He talked mostly about the hospital, and his own charity work; Poppy asked him again about whether there was anyone significant in his life, which he thought was a little odd until she made it clear the information was actually for Rick's ears.

“You know, Dad hasn't dated much since Dadley died,” she volunteered, right before she took the last sip of her wine.

That caught Rick off-guard; Vyvyan looked over at him, but he turned his raised eyebrows toward his daughter. “Yes, thank you for pointing that out, Poppy darling. Would you like me to go into great detail about your own Sahara of a love life?”

“My life is spent in lectures and hospitals – not much opportunity there, although I think Stephens was trying. Besides, I'm just saying,” she shrugged with a smirk, and Vyvyan sat back to admire her. He always feared that, if they met again, she'd remind him of Zara with every turn of her head, but that wasn't turning out to be the case. There was enough of himself that he could see in her, and a little of his mum, that when he did see Zara, it wasn't painful. It was getting to see Zara live again, through Poppy's smile, or laugh, or sniffle.

When their supper was finished, they settled in the sitting room again so Rick could look at the album Vyvyan had brought. Poppy and Rick settled on the sofa; Vyvyan was going to sit in the same wing-backed chair he'd occupied earlier, but Poppy patted the spot next to her, and he couldn't refuse.

“Oh! Poppy, _look_ how much you favor her,” was Rick's first whispered observation.

Poppy smiled. “Wasn't she beautiful?”

Absently, Rick nodded as he looked through the album. Aside from the scant photos of Zara, and one or two of Zara and Vyvyan, most of the photos were just of Poppy. There was one of her with Vyvyan's mother, a handful with either Vyvyan or Zara, and on the last page was one of the few photos he had of the three of them. Zara was sporting a pink-tipped Mohawk and smiling, wearing fishnets and a yellow tartan miniskirt with a black t-shirt and Vyvyan's sleeveless denim jacket. Vyvyan held Poppy up between them; she was about a month old, a puff of black hair mimicking her mother's style, and wide blue eyes. Zara's cheek was pressed against Poppy's, and Vyvyan was kissing Poppy's opposite cheek. Rick looked the photo over for a long moment before smiling up at Vyvyan.

“Thank you for bringing this,” he said. “These photos are priceless.”

Poppy settled the album back in the box, but kept it in her lap. “Dad, Vyvyan told me something I need you to corroborate,” she said with a grin.

Rick turned toward her with a raised eyebrow. “What did he tell you?”

“He's quite convinced Dadley hated him. I said that was impossible; he never hated anyone.” And then she turned her expectant face to Vyvyan on her other side, waiting for Rick to agree with her.

Rick smiled, a little uncomfortable. “Ah-hahaha . . . yes, well, Poppy, you know . . . sometimes, it was hard to know _what_ Dadley was thinking,” he said, and picked up his wine glass to take a gulp.

Vyvyan raised his own glass to Rick in a mock toast. “That means he hated me. Thank you, Richard.”

“No!” cried Poppy, a smile on her lips as she swiveled her head back toward Rick. “I don't believe it for a _moment_. He was the kindest, most selfless man I ever knew!”

Vyvyan cleared his throat. “Even kind and selfless people have limits, and buttons to press, and I pressed all of his – which was not, in my defense, unprovoked. He hated me in a very real way.”

Rick patted Poppy's knee. “Don't fret, darling – you're right about Dadley being kind and selfless. Although they really did bicker every time they saw each other, not that that was often. But I don't think he _hated_ you, Vyv. Not really.”

“I recall a mild disagreement during which he indicated that he wanted to re-name her, after his mum,” said Vyvyan, sipping from his wine glass. “He called me barmy.”

Poppy's face clouded over. “Oh, god – you were going to call me _Sharon_?”

“Yes, Vyvyan, if by _'mild disagreement'_ you're referring to the shouting match that took place in the solicitor's office during which _you_ called him a poof.”

“Yeah, that's the one,” replied Vyvyan brightly, even as Poppy's eyes went round with shock at the slur he'd used. “To be fair I called you _both_ poofs, because he called me stupid and used my name as an insult.”

“All right, fair enough. And yes, Poppy, he wanted to name you Sharon.” Rick crossed his legs primly and sipped his wine. “He thought it would help things along with his parents. It wouldn't have.”

“That's why there was a shouting match,” Vyvyan told Poppy. “The only thing I asked was that they didn't change your name.”

“Well thank the lord for that!” cried Poppy. “Why did you choose Penelope?”

Vyvyan shrugged. “Honestly, I dunno. Your mum loved it; always knew you were a girl, and always knew that's what she wanted to call you. She didn't even pick out a boy's name. It was the least I could do, to make sure you had one thing your mum gave you. We used to joke that one day, when we were both rich and famous doctors, we'd decorate the inside of our townhouse in Chelsea with spray-paint and send our kids to posh schools with spiked hair and leather trousers.”

Poppy and Rick both chuckled at his joke, and Poppy looked back at the photo album in her lap, caressing the cover. She reached for Rick's hand. “Were you never concerned about my being raised with two dads?”

Vyvyan shrugged. “I figure, I didn't have any dad, so if you had two it'd all balance out.”

“I suppose that's one way to look at it,” she replied, her eyes crinkling. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it from her pocket, scowling before she dismissed the alert and set it on top of the photo album.

“Really, it never bothered me. I mean, I made horrible jokes about Rick being the mum, but I just wanted you to be loved.”

“For my part, I did both,” declared Rick. “I was a great mum, and I love you.”

Poppy reached over to kiss Rick's cheek. “You're an _excellent_ mum!” she declared.

“Was it ever bad for you, because of that?” asked Vyvyan.

“Not bad, no,” she reassured him, squeezing his hand. “I got picked on sometimes, but nothing terrible. Mostly it was primary school mates who didn't know what the slurs they were using actually meant. I think my parents got the worst of it, especially when I was little. They sheltered me from a lot.”

“You need me to kick anyone's teeth in?” he asked, because the outpouring of emotions was getting to be a little too much. “You know, retroactively?”

Poppy laughed. “No, nothing like that. Anyone who was ever mean to me about it's been well forgotten.” Her phone went off again, and she scowled as she read the screen and then dismissed the alert.

Rick raised an eyebrow at her, but continued their conversation. “Actually, she remained fairly innocent of any notion that her parents weren't standard-issue until she was six or seven,” said Rick, and he turned to Poppy. “I remember you coming home from school one day in tears because someone told you that your parents couldn't possibly be real – not because there wasn't a mum, but because neither of us were brown.” Rick reached around and rubbed her shoulder. “She cried for hours about how she was the wrong color. She was so upset; all I wanted to do was hunt down the tiny little fascists and ship them to China.”

“It was Dadley who told me everything – as I sat sobbing on Dad's lap. I don't remember much of what he said, that first time, but I do remember that he talked about you.”

Vyvyan tilted his head, not sure he was prepared to have Bradley's hatred spewed at him through his daughter. “Did he?”

She nodded, making sure she held his gaze. “He said my father loved me fiercely.  I've always remembered that – the way he said it, the word _fiercely_.  That meant more than anything. Other adoptees I've talked to talk about feeling abandoned, but I never felt that way. I just felt like there was someone out there I didn't know who loved me. I always thought that was comforting.”

Vyvyan couldn't help it; his eyes filled. “I did,” he choked out. “I still do, Poppy. I have, all this time. I'm so sorry.”

His daughter reached out and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight. Vyvyan hugged back and forced himself to stop the waterworks by muttering curses internally – _stop bloody crying you buggering girl_ – and cleared his throat.

She pulled away, tears on her own cheeks, but an unmistakable smile on her face. She kept her hands wound tightly around his. “I've had a good life, Vyvyan. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He smiled back at her. He'd always known she _would_ have a good life – that was why he'd given her up in the first place – but the tangible proof in front of him soothed his soul in a way he wasn't certain he'd ever felt before, and he reached up to reflexively rub the spot over his heart. He didn't know what to say to her that wouldn't come out of his mouth in a jumble of _I can't believe_ and _you're so brilliant_ and _God you're beautiful_ and _I'm so proud_ and _I will smash Stephens if he gets too close_.

“I can't wait to get to know you better,” she said. Her phone lit up again, and she let go of Vyvyan's hands to dismiss the notification in aggravation.

Rick raised an eyebrow. “Who's texting you so insistently?”

“It's just Eliza.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I can talk to her tomorrow.”

The eyebrow went further up. “Didn't you say she's only home for a week this summer?”

“Yes, but I only just found Vyvyan!”

Vyvyan squeezed her hands, and let them go. “I'm not going anywhere. You know where I work, and I don't live more than a street or two away.”

Rick nudged her. “Go on and talk to Eliza – go have a drink, if you want.”

“You're done at the hospital,” Vyvyan reminded her. “No early morning tomorrow.”

She knit her eyebrows together and chewed her lip a little. “Are you sure?”

Vyvyan nodded. “Go catch up with your friend.”

“All right then.” She set her phone on top of the box, and scooted forward a little, considering the album in her lap. “Erm . . . Vyvyan, would you mind . . . if I kept this? For just a little while?” She peeked up at him hopefully.

He patted her hands, resting on the box. “Poppy. It's yours.”

Her surprise was evident. “You don't want it?”

“It's not that,” he said. “It's always been intended for you – these photos of you, and your mum. They belong to you; they always have.”

“Oh.” She teared up a little. “Well . . . if you're sure?”

Vyvyan nodded. “Yeah. It's yours, Poppy. Technically, it's your eighteenth birthday present.”

She touched his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. He could only nod.

Poppy's phone lit up again, and she picked it and the album up, kissed Vyvyan's cheek and then Rick's, and walked to her bedroom, dialing the phone and clutching the box to her chest. Vyvyan watched her go.

“Are you sure you want to give that up?” came Rick's soft voice.

“No,” he said honestly. “But I'm sure it doesn't belong to me.”

Rick reached over and took his hand; Vyvyan met his eyes. “Thank you, Vyvyan.”

Vyvyan squeezed his hand, and then let it go, shifting in his seat so he faced Rick more squarely. “Who's Eliza?” he asked.

“Eliza Blackwood is her best friend – they've been more or less attached at the hip since primary school. Eliza's family was the only one who never shied away from the gay couple in the neighborhood, and they were quick to support Bradley when he decided to run for office.”

“Good friends, then,” surmised Vyvyan.

“Yes, very good friends. Would you like to see some pictures? With Poppy, obviously – she and Eliza played cricket at school-”

Vyvyan was quick to decline. “Rick, I can't,” he said. “Not yet. It's too much.”

“All right,” replied Rick softly, nodding his head. “What made you decide to tell her?”

“She was just so upset,” he replied. “She had all these thoughts in her head about how maybe her mum had done something awful and that's why the Singhs wouldn't speak to her. I couldn't let that stand – her mother loved her. She was sick. And you said she wanted to know.”

“She's been asking me for a long time. Started about a year after Bradley died, in fact, so I'm sure it's been much longer that she's been thinking about it.”

Poppy bounced back into the room then, all smiles and excitement. “Right – I'm going to grab a bottle of wine and pop down to Eliza's. We have _so much_ to talk about – she's going to Thailand for three months, and then Japan and I think she said something about a new boyfriend she'll have to throw over?” She looked a little confused as she popped her phone into her pocket. “Anyway, Dad – can I have that Lambrusco?”

Rick paused a moment to think. “The Italian one?”

Poppy's expression went flat. “Dad. It's an Italian wine – all Lambrusco is Italian.”

“All right – don't get cheeky with me, _missy_!”

“I'm only suggesting that you learn something about the wine you buy, instead of just flirting with the sommelier,” she replied, and then pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. “Can I have it?”

Rick turned bright pink, and his eyes went round. “I am not flirting, _Penelope_ , I'm just being nice, that's all. And yes, you can have it,” Rick conceded. She whooped and ran in the general direction of the kitchen.

“You have absolutely no idea which wine she's talking about.”

Rick's eyebrows shot up. “Of course I know which wine she's talking about! I know my own wine cabinet, _Vyvyan_.”

He smirked and met Rick's eyes. “Really? Have you got a German Lambrusco in there?”

“Oh shut _up_ , Vyvyan!”

Vyvyan laughed at him, and drained the rest of his wine from dinner.

Poppy re-appeared with the bottle she wanted, and kissed Rick's cheek. “Don't wait up for me – you know where I am,” she said. “And don't let Vyvyan leave before you get another dinner on the calendar. I've got his number.”

“Say hello to Eliza for me,” said Rick.

“All right.” Poppy turned to Vyvyan, seating next to Rick on the sofa. “I'll see you soon.”

He nodded. “When do you shadow Frank?”

She scowled at him; it made him smile. “Who?”

“Doc Mathers.”

Her face opened and brightened in understanding. “Oh! Next week already,” she said. “I cannot _wait_.”

“Oh you are a glutton for punishment,” he said. “A week shadowing a trauma surgeon on the back of a week working in the A&E.”

“Isn't it best to know what you're getting into up front?”

“I think so,” said Vyvyan. “For some things a little warm-up would be nice, though. You know, ease into calamity.”

“Oh bore- _ring_ ,” she replied dismissively, tucking the wine under her arm. “I'm going to need a hug before I go.”

Unable to deny her anything, Vyvyan rose even though his cheeks colored brightly and he was acutely aware of Rick's eyes on him. Poppy wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly, and he returned the gesture, wrapping his hand around the back of her head. “I'm not going anywhere,” he promised. “I've missed you so much, Poppy.”

She pulled away and smiled up at him, and then kissed his cheek. “I'll see you soon,” she said, and with another wave at Rick she left.

Vyvyan was at a loss for what to do, once the door had closed. Rick got to his feet and collected their wine glasses, but didn't go anywhere with them for a moment.

“Are you all right, Vyvyan?” he asked.

He nodded a moment, staring after Poppy, trying to determine whether he was actually all right or not. “Yeah. Think so. Like Poppy said, it's, erm . . . it's a lot.”

“Now that you've . . . found each other,” Rick asked slowly, “you'll . . . you'll stay in touch. Won't you?”

Vyvyan turned to meet his eyes; they were hopeful. He smiled softly. “Yeah. S'long as she wants me to.”

Rick nodded. “I kept my promise,” he said solemnly.

Vyvyan closed his eyes, remembering the promise Rick made him when he'd placed Poppy in Rick's arms.

 _Make sure she's happy,_ he'd begged. _Make sure she knows she's loved._

They had both been crying; Poppy's blanket had been wet at the top where Vyvyan had been resting his cheek while she slept, and he'd clung to every last moment he had. Rick had sobbed, and apologized, and promised.

“You did,” he said, nodding as he opened his eyes again. “I don't know how to say thank you.”

Rick smiled at him. “You gave me the opportunity to be a dad, Vyvyan. I don't know how to thank you for that.”

Vyvyan returned his smile fleetingly, and then looked away for a moment before he cleared his throat. “Look, Rick . . . this is awkward, so I'm just going to get it out of the way. I've got money set aside for Poppy.”

Ricks' eyebrows shot up again. “Oh. Vyvyan, that . . . really isn't necessary. Bradley left plenty to pay for her education.”

“I figured that might be the case,” he said. “But I still want this money to go to Poppy. So when she's ready to buy a house, or get married. . . . Or if she wants to work for some girly world-peace organization. . . . I know Bradley came from money, but-”

Rick laughed a little, and shook his head. “Erm . . . Bradley's parents have become . . . distant. Not that they were ever really much in the way of grandparents, but since he died . . . we're on Christmas card terms, and that's about it.”

Vyvyan paused. “Is that why she trims her name to Pratt?”

“I'm afraid so. It'd kill Bradley, if he weren't already dead. But she's very angry at them.”

Vyvyan's eyebrow raised. “So she _does_ need me to kick someone's teeth in.”

Rick laughed softly. “I think she'd prefer they were left to the loneliness they've chosen over her. Bradley had no other siblings; she's the only grandchild they had.”

“Maybe they should get together with the Singhs,” said Vyvyan. “Just as bloody stupid.” Rick chuckled again, and while Vyvyan enjoyed his smile, he figured it was about time for all the awkwardness and emotions to be an an end for the evening. “Well anyway. I should go.”

“Please don't.”

“Okay.”

He really hadn't meant for that to come out so quickly.

“I'll get some more wine – have a seat,” Rick suggested. Vyvyan sat back down on the sofa, cursing himself for caving so quickly, and softly rubbed the spot on his chest while he waited for Rick.

When his old friend re-appeared, he had a glass of wine in each hand. Vyvyan accepted the glass he held out, and watched Rick take a sip before he sat down next to him, and made himself comfortable.

“I didn't realize how late it was,” he commented. “It's nearly ten.”

“D'you want me to go?”

He shook his head, but had to pause as he was caught by an enormous yawn. “No – no, Vyv. Stay. Really. I mean – if you want to.” He sipped his wine, and relaxed a little when Vyvyan mimicked him. “Oh – you know what, Vyvyan, I thought of you the other day – I mean, before Poppy came home ranting about sexist doctors.”

“Can't imagine what would make you think of me outside of sexist doctors. Unless it was a _sexy_ doctor?”

Rick's nose wrinkled with a giggle, and he excitedly sat up to scoot to the edge of the sofa. “No, no – nothing like that. Did you know someone's put Bastard Squad on YouTube?” he asked.

“Did they really?” Vyvyan laughed, amused by Rick's excitement more than anything else.

“Yes – the whole thing! D'you want to watch one?”

Rick was so enthusiastic about it, Vyvyan couldn't help but agree to it. A moment later Rick had brought out the bottle of wine and set it on the coffee table, and then settled himself, cross-legged, next to Vyvyan with an iPad.

“Now . . . I'm not very good with this thing but I think. . . .” He tapped a few times on the screen, and Vyvyan leaned over to watch him. “I think here? I just touch this, right?”

“Yes, Rick – just tap it. It's a touch screen, not witchcraft.”

“Well I don't want to break anything, _Vyvyan_ – this is Poppy's. How do I type – oh, there's the keyboard.”

“You operate that thing so naturally, like it's another limb. Ever think about a career in technology?”

He turned bright pink but smiled, shoving his guest's shoulder with his own. “Shut _up_ , Vyvyan!”

With the iPad perched on his leg, the two old friends huddled together with their wine to watch Bastard Squad. It was oddly reminiscent of their college days, when they'd squeeze onto the sofa to watch, although back then it was only Vyvyan who would have the alcohol. By the time it was over, their glasses were empty, and they were both bemused.

“Well.” Rick turned the iPad off and leaned forward to set it and his empty wine glass on the coffee table. He sat back with a sigh. “That, erm . . . doesn't hold up, does it?”

“No – not at all.” Vyvyan was chuckling. “You look so disappointed.”

“I was excited to watch it again!” he said, and Vyvyan could hear his speech starting to slur a little. “Bastards! Were we really that stupid?”

“Yes,” replied Vyvyan easily. “You shouldn't have to ask that question; of course we were.”

“But Poppy's only a little older than we were. I don't think she's that stupid.” Rick sighed again and twisted himself so that he was sideways on the couch, leaning heavily with his left side into the back so he could face Vyvyan.

Vyvyan smiled softly. “She's your daughter though,” he said. “Of course you don't think she's stupid.”

Rick melted a little more into the couch, droopy-eyed. “She's yours, too.”

“She's brilliant,” was Vyvyan's soft reply. He set his own empty wine glass down, and moved a little so that he sat like Rick, supported a little by the arm of the couch at his back. For a long moment, they just watched each other.

“Vyv?”

“Hm?”

“What _didn't_ you tell her?” asked Rick.

“Very little,” he replied. “I did tell her that after I gave her up I was well on my way to getting myself kicked out of school, but I didn't say that it was you that drug me out of the pit I'd thrown myself in.”

Rick reached for Vyvyan's face, and flitted his thumb across the more jagged scar on the left side of his forehead. “Did you tell her I did this?”

He smiled softly. “No.”

Both of Rick's eyebrows raised. “She'd probably be very upset that I had to resort to such measures – and shocked that I'd participate in a physical fight.”

Vyvyan snorted. “What she'd be shocked about is the fact that you actually knew enough to close your fist before you aimed it at someone,” he replied.

Rick conceded the point, too tipsy to argue. “Did you really _have_ to tell her about the pigtails, Vyvyan?”

This time he laughed outright. “Yes, Rick. I did.” He was quiet a moment, looking over at Rick. "You look much better without them." 

Rick smiled at Vyvyan. "And what do you think of the beard?"

Vyvyan considered Rick's question for a moment, looking over his face. "I don't like it."

"No?" His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he pet his face. "Poppy says they're all the rage."

"Hides your mouth." Vyvyan shrugged. "I like your mouth."

Rick colored, and gave his guest a flattered but embarrassed smile, and couldn't look away. He cleared his throat, gently scratching the side of his face a moment, and then resolutely changed the subject. “Have you heard anything of Mike or Neil? I thought I heard from someone that Neil had joined Greenpeace and had moved to Amsterdam.”

Vyvyan shook his head. “I hadn't heard that, but it wouldn't surprise me. As it happens, I did see Michael a few years back.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, in a professional capacity.”

Rick's smile turned mischievous. “And what was Michael having removed from his bottom?”

Vyvyan barked a laugh. “Not far off the mark, actually. I removed bird shot from both buttocks. Got a spray in each cheek from an enraged husband.”

Rick chuckled. “He's got a couple kids now, doesn't he?”

“He does have two kids he mentioned. I suspect there are more than he probably knows about.”

“You idolized him.” Rick's tone was accusatory.

Vyvyan shrugged. “We all did, Rick. 'Cept Neil, maybe. But it was easy to – he seemed to have everything figured out.”

“What's he up to these days?”

“Some kind of consulting work,” answered Vyvyan with a furrowed brow. “Sounded like bunch of bullshit to me, which it probably is. Really hasn't changed much – I gave him my card and told him we should get a drink sometime, but I haven't heard from him since.”

“Maybe he was too embarrassed.”

“I've seen far more embarrassing things in the A&E, Rick.”

“I mean. . . .” Rick looked away a moment thoughtfully. “I mean maybe, he was embarrassed that out of all of us, the one person who seemed least likely to achieve his life goals was you, and you actually achieved them. Spectacularly, I might add.”

Heat crept into Vyvyan's cheeks and he he couldn't look at Rick. “I don't really see it that way.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I always meant to become a surgeon – failed at that. Had someone who actually loved me, and didn't see how much she was suffering. And then . . . Poppy. . . .” His hand involuntarily went to the favored spot over his heart.

Rick looked him over curiously. “Why do you rub your chest like that?”

Vyvyan couldn't help but turn bright pink. “It's just a nervous habit,” he replied, which was not untrue.

Rick tilted his head knowingly. “ _Vyv._ ”

He huffed a sigh. “If I tell you why, right, this is the end of all the soppy shit. I can't take any more, Rick – you and Poppy are gonna turn me into a big emotional girly.”

Rick conceded. “All right. For _now_.”

“Fine. Bastard.”

He reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt, loosening it from his trousers. Pushing aside the fine cotton-weave of his dress shirt, he showed Rick his chest.

Rick's eyes filled. “Vyvyan. That's _gorgeous_.” He set aside his wine glass and reached out, but stopped just short of resting his fingertips on the anatomically correct tattoo of a human heart on Vyvyan's chest, slightly left of center. The heart was colored a rich celestial blue, and in the middle there was negative space in the unmistakable shape of a poppy flower.

Rick looked up at Vyvyan. “You'll let Poppy see it, won't you?”

Their eyes met. “Yeah,” replied Vyvyan. “Yeah, if she wants.”

“Didn't you ever talk to a counselor or a psychologist about all this?”

“Well,” said Vyvyan, buttoning his shirt back up, “in a way, I s'pose. I saw a psychologist once who basically said that I loved working in the A&E because it made me feel in control. Also that I was rebelling against my sexuality when I was a punk. But I think he only said that 'cause I had his cock in my mouth at the time.”

And then Rick laughed the ridiculous snigger-snort laugh Vyvyan remembered from their days sharing a house, and he couldn't help leaning into Rick as he laughed, too. And then it was an easy, impulsive reach to wrap Rick in his arms and pull him into an embrace, leaning back into the arm of the sofa. “God I've missed you.”

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but he didn't regret it.

When Rick's laughter had settled, Vyvyan felt him relax, and make himself comfortable. Vyvyan tensed while a warm hand sneaked around his waist; another rested on his chest over the poppy tattoo. But when Rick's head made a pillow of Vyvyan's shoulder, he melted, and he feathered the fingers of his right hand into Rick's graying hair.

“Vyv,” Rick drawled. “Would you kiss me? Just once, even if it means nothing?”

Vyvyan peered down at Rick's droopy-eyed, hopeful face. He smiled a little and brought his thumb up to caress Rick's cheek, wrinkled with inexcusable grace. “I'm not gonna kiss you, Rick.”

Rick's mouth turned upside-down in a pout. “Why not?”

“Cause you're drunk.”

“No I'm not. I've only had two glasses of wine, Vyvyan.”

Vyvyan huffed a laugh. “Two too many. You never could hold your liquor. Poof.”

“ _Really_ , Vyvyan. That is such a _childish_ , outdated term. _Must_ you still use it?”

“Yes. I must, Rick.” He kept the smile in his eyes, and his thumb continued to caress Rick's cheek.

Rick took a deep breath in. “Vyv?”

“Yes, Rick.”

“Are you? A . . . poof.”

“You could just say _gay_ , Rick.”

“Vyvyan!”

Vyvyan laughed and rested his hand on top of Rick's, winding their fingers together.

“I just want to know if maybe after all this time. . . . There's a chance you might. One day.” Rick's eyes drooped closed.

Vyvyan waited for him to clarify, but Rick was quiet. “Be a poof?” he prompted.

“Kiss me.”

Vyvyan pet his hair. “One day, Rick. When you're not drunk.”

“So . . . t'morrow?”

“Maybe.”

“Promise?”

Vyvyan reached up to sweep the fringe from Rick's forehead softly, and left a gentle kiss there. When Rick burrowed even deeper into his chest, he couldn't help but tighten his arms.

“I want tongue, Vyv.”

“Go to sleep, you bastard.”

Rick chuckled, a warm, rich sound to Vyvyan's ears, and snuggled closer, and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Vyvyan woke to the sound of his alarm, and was vaguely confused for a moment. Then he felt a hand reach into his trouser pocket and remove his phone, pulling it up outside of the blanket that covered him.

The hand belonged to Rick, and so did the scowling face resting on Vyvyan's chest.

“This has got to be the most god-awful alarm in the world,” he muttered.

“Yes, well some of us have jobs, Rick, and I've got to get to mine,” he replied. He took the phone from Rick's hand and silenced the alarm.

“It's Saturday,” Rick protested.

“People still get sick and injured on Saturdays, Rick. I'm on every other weekend.” Vyvyan yawned. “I don't remember having a blanket last night when you passed out on me.”

“Poppy brought it when she came home,” said Rick. “She also turned off the lights and put the wine away. And I didn't pass out, Vyvyan – I just fell asleep.”

“Either way, you're a bloody lightweight.” Vyvyan yawned again. “Where's Poppy?”

Rick listened a moment. “She's asleep.”

“Good.”

Vyvyan sat up abruptly and tossed Rick back down in the opposite direction so that he was on his back on the couch, and Vyvyan hovered over him. He rested his knee next to Rick's hip on the inside of the couch and supported himself with a hand on the arm, right above Rick's head.

Vyvyan was sure he was scowling, but though Rick was startled by the sudden change of positions he didn't appear to be intimidated.

“Vyvyan?”

“Would you like an anatomy lesson, Rick?”

“Erm . . . no, not really.”

“Yes you would.” He ran his thumb along Rick's jaw. “The proper name for the jawbone is mandible. This,” he said, pressing a finger gently to the underside of Rick's chin and moving it gently as he spoke, “is the anterior belly of the digastric muscle. Just here is where the jugular vein sits, right next to the external carotid artery. . . .” He continued to describe the inner workings of Rick's throat, gently running his fingers up and down, to the left and right. The pad of his index finger slipped down Rick's Adam's apple, and Vyvyan held his gaze intently. “This is all protected by a network of muscles, including the clavicular head and sternal head muscles.”

Rick drew in a sharp breath when Vyvyan's fingertips drug down to the hollow of his throat and then back up diagonally, across said muscles and resting just below his ear. “Interesting.”

Vyvyan nodded. “I think so. There was a time when I wanted to mash all this together in my fist.”

“I know,” said Rick. “I was an annoying bastard.”

“You were. But so was I. I don't want to strangle you anymore.”

“What do you want, Vyvyan?”

“I'd like you to have dinner with me tonight.”

Rick smiled. “I'd love to.”

“And if you're a very good boy, later on I shall both explain, and give you a practical demonstration of, how your epiglottis functions.”

Rick perked a sleepy eyebrow. “And what might an epiglottis be, Dr. Basterd?”

“It's the flap of cartilage that covers your windpipe when you're not breathing. It prevents you from aspirating things you put into your mouth. Fluids, for example.”

Now both of Rick's eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”

Vyvyan nodded.

“Promise?”

In response, Vyvyan lowered his mouth to Rick's and pressed a kiss there gently, but firm enough so Rick would know he meant it. But Rick was evidently not interested in gently, because his arms came up to wind around Vyvyan's neck and hold him close while he ground his hips against Vyvyan's and begged a deeper kiss.

Vyvyan's free hand cradled Rick's bearded face, and he obliged, holding himself steady over Rick's body while his mouth delved into Rick's. He wanted to go slowly, and let it be short and sweet, but then Rick hummed into his mouth and all Vyvyan could think about was consuming Rick and he ground right back and pulled Rick's face closer.

When Rick pulled away to breathe he pressed a hand against Vyvyan's chest. “You're growling,” he whispered with a laugh.

“Sorry,” said Vyvyan, but he wasn't.

Breathless, Rick held his eyes. “Vyvyan, I have to confess something.”

“What is it?”

“Bradley really _did_ hate you.”

“I knew that already, you bastard.”

“Bradley hated you because he knew I loved you.” He searched Vyvyan's eyes a moment. “And he knew that you hurt me. I know – I know it wasn't on purpose.”

Vyvyan searched Rick's eyes as he caressed Rick's cheek. “Do you still love me, Rick?”

He smiled. “I don't know, Vyv. But I'd like to see where this could go. I just need to know one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Are you out?”

Vyvyan stroked Rick's beard and smiled a little. “I'm not hiding anything, Rick. I wouldn't even hide you.”

“Bastard.” Rick pulled him down for another kiss. Vyvyan obliged him, laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
> 
> I wanted to add, too, that this is my first m/m pairing so if you have any feedback, I'm all ears. Thanks!


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